


Harry and the Djin

by Nattish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Implied Mpreg, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nattish/pseuds/Nattish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing more than a street rat, Harry expects little from his life, certainly not to stumble upon a djin, who will help him on his quest to court the enchanting Prince Draco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidheann_writes (eidheann)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidheann/gifts).



> A sweeping thanks to L for pre-reading this. You were swift and kind and encouraging. :) eidheann_writes, I wait, biting my nails, for nothing would please me more than if this story tickled your fancy.

They call me street rat. 

For a while, I was convinced it was my name. One day, my aunt slipped up when my uncle praised Cousin Dudley for reinforcing the roof for winter. She said, "Harry did it" into her mint tea, and then coughed with shame. My uncle grew red, dropped his cup onto the dirt floor, and said, "Then perhaps _Harry_ would like to sleep on the roof, since he cares so much," and tossed me out.

I was five or six. Never really knew my birthday, if I'm honest. That's how I ended up sleeping in a goat shelter. 

Not theirs. My family lived in the crowded, rank-smelling part of the kingdom. And, anyway, they didn't pay me much mind, only occasionally throwing me flatbread edges and frequently throwing me chores (and Dudley's), so I left, because that wasn't exciting, was it? Now I live in Hermione's goat shelter and only have to deal with the rank smells in there. She was always sweet to me growing up, and her parents were well-off enough to give me milk once a day and olives when they had them, in exchange for work.

It's just...Hermione, as sweet and clever as she is...can be pretty dull. That's why we're here: standing shiftily at the wall of the main city, waiting for a lull in the village foot-traffic so we might shimmy over unnoticed.

"Harry," she moans, glancing over her shoulder _again_. "We can't go into the magical district."

"Why not? I've washed my face, been practicing my abracadabras, and—oh—I go all the time."

"You what?"

"Come, now. Did you really think I brought you all those oranges because old lady Figg _had so many she couldn't possibly eat them all_? Right, here we go." I scale the wall, perch on the edge, and hold out my hand. "Get jumping."

"It's against the law," she exclaims, grabbing on. I heave her up and whisper, "So is sneaking into the palace library, you shifty little thing."

Hermione goes pink with indignation. So I think. When I turn, my mouth goes dry at the sight that greets us on the other side of the wall: a market. A huge, bloody massive, loud, bazaar brimming with vendors of all walks that certainly wasn't here last week.

"You there!" a bear of a man shouts just below, pointing at us with a sausage-like finger. "Street urchin _thieves_!"

We topple the wrong direction straight into an apple bin. I scramble out immediately, dodging the apple vendor's hands. He's calling for guards, others are looking on with anger, and Hermione—she's nowhere.

"Harry!" 

Damn it, all I see are apples jumping about. At last, a small hand shoots out of the bin, and I haul her out. The vendor lunges for me, barely catching my collar, but I duck and look over my shoulder as Hermione leads the sprint. I meet eyes, not with the apple vendor, but with a guard I know well. His wand is poised for us.

"Hermione, duck and roll!"

"What?"

I lunge for her just as a red strip of light shoots through the air, and I'm immediately hit with the smell of burning hair but luckily nothing else. We scramble up, dodging market patrons, vendors, camels, fruit stands, and shuffle off into the closest alley.

"We'll be trapped here," she says frantically. "I can hear them coming."

There's a length of rope hanging off the roof of the building beside us. "Arms around my shoulders! There you go."

She hangs off me like a human cape as I scale the wall. Halfway up, we pass a window with a fluttering pink curtain, where a boy with strawberry blond hair turns in his bed and starts to rise.

"Harry," he says lingeringly.

"Not now," I grunt. Once we reach the top, I roll onto the roof, blink at the sun, take in the smell of kebab meats through my tired, open mouth, and fling one hand into the air. "So! This is Hograbah!"

Poor, windswept Hermione peers the ground. "And what a welcome."

"What do you suppose that bazaar was about? It usually doesn't extend this far into the city."

"Courting Fair."

"What's that?" I ask, rummaging in my tunic. Ah, there's the apple I managed to ferret away.

"Suitors travel from all over the world to try their hand at courting the various royal heirs. They bring their own goods and animals with them, so I imagine it's a good week to be a trader." She pulls her shawl tight around her shoulders, turning to watch me chew. "This year it's especially big, apparently, because the crown prince has finally come out."

"Come outta wha'?"

"Come out," she says emphatically. "Into _society_. Don't talk with your mouth full."

"But where was the prince before he came out?"

"Oh, Harry." She sits beside me, plucks the apple away, and takes a careful bite. Of course, she chews and swallows before asking, "Who was that boy in the window?"

I smile. "I'll tell you that when you tell me who's been sneaking you into the palace library all these months."

"The same person who told me about the Courting Fair."

"Is he a wizard?"

"You're changing the subject," she says, exasperated. "Fine. He is a wizard—at least, he went to primary school. But _he_ thinks, like me, that we're all capable of magic even without a formal education."

"Oh, does he?" I reach for the apple, but Hermione tosses it off the roof. "Oy, my lunch!"

"For instance…"

She grabs the hem of my tunic, flaps it repeatedly, and without warning dozens more apples start falling out. I stand up and watch them bruise on the rooftop, until the last one falls, along with my jaw. 

"How did you—?"

Hermione swipes a new apple, taking a satisfied bite. "I've been reading," she say with her mouth full.

There is no doubt in my mind. "Take me there. Teach me."

Her smile falters. "Ron's been working with me for a long time, Harry. And it's nothing special. Just some basic conjuring and a Warming Charm and the like."

" _Ron_ , is it?"

"Oh, shut up."

"Take me. Please. I want to learn magic. More than anything, I—"

I can see myself with a wand. As a boy, I dreamed of conjuring myself a warm bed, mending my moth-eaten cloak, transfiguring a beehive into a huge pile of baklava and sharing it with all the village children. Now I'd just as soon conjure a pack of camels to take me on adventures over the desert, as far east as Siam, as far west as Gaul, and to the great mountainous reaches of the north. I'd eat jungle fruit, slay dragons, free enslaved peoples—anything that struck my fancy that day. I'd dress in enchanted robes and take lovers who smelled of honey blossoms and wake up surrounded with wine and incense. I want to have it all, see it all, and if I were magical, surely I could make any dream come true.

Hermione bites her lip, looking over her shoulder at the golden domes of the palace that lean imperiously over the great magical district and our poor village beyond. "I can't guarantee you'll be able to do it, too," she says.

"I know."

"And if we get caught, we could all get into a world of trouble. We're not allowed to step foot on the palace grounds, you know."

"But you'll help?"

She cocks an eyebrow. "If you'll tell me how you know that fellow down below."

***

The sun is setting, the palace moat golden in the dusky light, and Hermione and I sopping wet and covered in what I hope is mud as we slog out of it—and even _that_ is more pleasant than Hermione's endless whinging.

"A prostitute," she keeps saying. "Really, Harry? A prostitute?"

"Shout it to the rooftops, 'Mione. _This man has needs_. What a scandal."

She glowers, muttering, " _Ventus_ ," leaving my skin to tingle as it dries. My tunic and trousers morph into a white fitted sort of garment, which, looking at the people running around outside the palace, is probably a servant's uniform. Hermione wears a white dress with an apron.

"So, this is how I get in unnoticed. Ron usually meets me outside the library with a key, and then we…" 

She catches sight of someone approaching us from an annex not far away: a plump redheaded woman wringing a towel and talking a mile a minute.

"Forgive me for what's about to happen," Hermione says.

"Hermione, dear!" the woman cries. "I didn't think you were coming today, but you're late. And your hair looks damp—here, let's just braid it then." She smiles warmly at me as she manhandles Hermione's head. "Now, who's your friend? No matter, there's work to do. Both of you into the kitchen."

AndI suppose we'll get to the library later. 

For now, I find myself in a bustling kitchen made of stone and clay. The air is heavy with fire, but smells divine, like spices and herbs I can't even name. I'm almost beheaded by several disks of bread shooting out of the oven at top speed. They land in a basket, which immediately flies off the working table and out a door at the other end of the kitchen. 

"Now, then," the plump woman says, hefting a tray of assorted meats into my arms. "Too valuable to risk with those shoddy levitation spells. Take this out to the guests, dear. Set it nice and close to the royal family. Draco just loves his lamb."

"The royal family?" I repeat, feeling my knees begin to weaken.

"Don't be shy. They won't pay you any mind. Now run along, they're hungry."

I seem to have no choice. Hermione has disappeared into a crowd of servants and this woman is starting to push, so I shuffle out of the kitchen and into a world I've never seen before— 

—and nearly meet my doom.

A dozen knives jet past my face. I barely stumble back in time to save my nose.

"Sorry, mate!" says a well-dressed man, backing around me. He's pointing his wand at a second man, who's in the middle of lunging forward, shouting, " _Flammus!"_

I flatten myself against a pillar to avoid spitting fire.

"Oi, no fatal spells!" shouts the first man.

"What do you call flying knives?"

I don't hear the response. They are laughing and parrying away. My heart is pounding and my hands shake so hard I'm surprised the meat is still on the tray. So this is how the wealthy party...

"They're vying for the prince's affections."

I turn to find a young man standing over me ( _looming_ , more like), and, judging from the red hair and freckles, I'd bet he's related to the kindly cook.

"Last man standing gets to sit with him at the feast," he's saying. He leans in, not taking his eyes off the duelers, and says out the side of his mouth, "Don't know why they're fighting over a seat next to that wanker."

My heart jumps, and I look around for listeners. "What?"

"I'm Ron," he says, shaking my hand. "Hermione told me you were out here."

"Oh. Er, Harry. Do you know where I—?"

"The purple tent on the platform. Set down the tray and get out, unless you want to risk them asking you to warm up their pumpkin ale."

"How would I warm it?"

He raises two knowing eyebrows. "With a Warming Charm, of course."

"Ah. I see."

"Right, so meet us at the side entrance to the library after that. It's down the rose garden path and to the left."

The purple tent is easy enough to find among less impressive burlap tents, but I stop short, hearing an anxious discussion streaming out of the curtains. The man currently speaking sounds like he's paranoid someone might overhear. Naturally, I listen.

"I let him postpone his coming out until his twenty-first birthday—unheard of! You'd think he'd thank me by bothering to show up to his own Courting Fair."

"He will be here, Lucius. Do drink your ale and calm yourself."

At the mention of ale, I rush past the curtains to slide the meat tray onto a table already brimming with fruit, nuts, pies, and bread. 

"You there," the first speaker says. From his dress and, quite frankly, the crown of silver and emeralds on his head, I gather he is the king. Not knowing the appropriate response, I can only stare. "You look familiar..." he says.

"I imagine it's because he serves you dinner every night," says a blond woman, staring out at the musicians. She is beautiful, but bored-looking.

"No, no, no, he looks like that man in the portrait. The one in the Red Room, Thomas, you know..."

The king snaps his fingers at a man I didn't notice before. Standing behind the king's chair, he is slender, dark of hair, pale of skin, and very much off-putting despite his handsomeness. His eyes practically drill holes in me.

"Perhaps he is the son of a king," the man says flatly.

"Oh, yes! Riddle, you regular jester." The king continues to snort into his goblet until his wife beckons me, saying, "You, boy. Take my husband's ale away."

I do so without question, and zip back down the stairs.

This is where it gets hazy. In the excitement of the moment, it's unclear if I notice the beautiful young man first or the pair of duelers backing perilously close to him. I know his back is to the party, while he sits on a bench in an alcove surrounded by moss trees. I know I find myself running, my words caught in my throat, adrenaline having that muting effect on me, and just as the young man turns his chin towards me, his hood falling back to reveal a graceful neck and a headful of shimmering white hair, I lunge for him. 

Not for the first time that day, a spell barely misses me and results in the smell of burning hair.

A dueler shouts, "Sorry!" and then bounds off to continue his brave act of wooing, but my focus is on the young man coughing beneath me...and the chicken rummaging for food in my hair.

"Oi!" I say, flinging the bird off me.

"Oh, _God,_ " moans the young man. "Was that a Chicken Charm? Who uses a Chicken Charm in the middle of a—? Nevermind, I don't care. Please," he finishes. It takes me a moment to realize he is asking for help up.

As I pull him, I'm struck by his hands. They are so buttery soft that mine feel like hooves in comparison. I note this with a sinking heart, because despite his plain blue robes and hood, he simply must be royalty of some kind.

"Um," I say, wiping sweaty palms on my uniform.

"Thanks for that. I guess."

"Are you, um…here for the prince, then? The whole courting...thing."

He hums, examining me from over a pointed but elegant nose. Quite honestly, all his features are elegant, from his hands and nose to his neatly arranged hair, his defined jaw, and the slightly full mouth into which it slopes. Even his eyes are a most distinguished shade of blue-gray, reflecting back at me like silver. I find myself staring at him. I didn't know a person could look this way.

"No, I'm not a suitor," he's saying. "But I guess you could say I'm here for the prince."

I am hopeful. "His servant, then?"

He shrugs a shoulder and wanders further from the dueling path into the moss trees and tall flowers, scanning the ground until he exclaims, "There you are" and picks up a book.

I know only that I must prolong this conversation. 

"Do you know where he is? His parents seem worried about him."

"He's around," the young man says slowly, a smile spreading onto his face. "You say his parents have no idea his whereabouts?"

"Er. Right."

"I see. Come with me." Then, just my luck, he grabs my hand again.

He keeps his back to the festival as we walk. Certainly, _I_ walk. He seems to glide on his feet, this boy.

"But—are we looking for the prince?" 

We go up a grassy slope to what seems to be an expansive herb garden. It's empty, save for a sleeping eagle owl, who opens one eye at me and gives a long, suspicious glare. The young man pulls out his wand and taps a few rocks embedded in the wall, exclaiming, "Ha!" when he finds a loose one.

"This is perfect timing," he says, working the stone out. It looks like he's done this before, with fingers both nimble and graceful. "There. Have you ever seen something so beautiful?" When he turns to see my reaction, I get the impression I've been caught admiring him, as his cheeks suddenly turn a shade of pink to rival the sunset. "No," he laughs, turning me towards the hole. "Out there."

It's a bird's eye view of my village. From here, it's got a certain charm, the last civilized stop before a wide, white desertscape with no end as far as the eye can see.

"I don't know what to say," I tell him honestly. "It's nice?"

"It's better than nice. It's exciting. Do you know the children down there play together all day? From sunrise to sunset, they just run around without a care in the world."

Part of me wants to mention that many of those children have cares like whether they will eat or freeze that night, but the young man's excitement keeps me quiet. 

"And beyond that, there's desert for miles and miles," he says. "Until you come to an oasis, which is like a little heaven with camels drinking out of it. And beyond that, there's either a sea or a savanna, depending on which direction you go. Can you imagine?"

My face hurts from smiling. I cannot look away.

"What did you say your name was?" he asks.

"Harry."

"Harry. And where did you say you were from? I know you don't normally work in the palace, unless one of those poor shopkeepers loaned you out for the day. Oh—" He squeezes my wrist apologetically. "Not that _you're_ poor."

"I am poor," I say, sliding down to sit on the grass with my back against the wall. Below us, the party is in full swing under lanterns and purple sky. Men dance. Women drink and laugh at their separate tables. Knives float alongside kebabs, shaving themselves onto overflowing plates. "Where I'm from...it's...well, nothing like this. Best you stay here with the prince you seem to have lost."

"You don't know what you're talking about. I mean, _take_ the prince, for example. Can you imagine? As big as our world is, and never seeing any of it but a man-made pond, a garden, silly parties like these, and the silk that surrounds your bed? A bird may live in a gold-gilded cage, but it is still a cage at the end of the day. I'm no different, really."

I can't relate to the tragic, beautiful words he speaks to me, but finding this young man so willing to bear his soul warms me in a way I've never known. He sits with his chin atop his bent knees, and after a long moment watching him there, lost and vulnerable, I realize I've leaned so close that I can see the light at the tips of his lashes. I must weave my fingers into the grass for fear I will do something rash.

"Harry," he says quietly, those lashes flitting towards me. "No one has ever listened to me like this without first knowing my name."

"What's your name got to do with it?"

His laugh is nearly imperceptible. "See, you're so pure, aren't you?"

I blush. I have no idea what he's talking about, but I do want to hear more. So much more, I can shamelessly admit.

"What are you going to do, now?" I ask him, making him snort and roll his eyes.

"Perhaps I should leave. All this official nonsense...Courting Fairs, festivals, marriages. It's so boring. Don't you think it's boring? I think I'll just go wherever the desert takes me."

I glance at the landscape beyond the wall. "What, out there?"

"It's impulsive, I admit. But—" He holds up a finger, whipping out the book he picked up in the alcove. "I've been reading this, and it says there's a rainforest only forty days' ride from here. That's not so bad, is it?"

Beautiful _and_ crazy, this one.

"Look, you can't just go wandering into the desert," I tell him.

"And why not?"

"Just…" I shake my head. "There are no words. Come on." I pull him back down the hill. The musicians have started playing, a sitar and a quick horn jaunting as one, and I'm practically jaunting myself as I near the fray with his hand in mine.

"I can't be seen," my companion hisses, pulling his hood low over his eyes. 

"Keep your head down if you're worried about your boss spotting you." Yet another redhead, a young girl, swirls by with a platter of wine glasses, off which I swipe two goblets. "Now drink. Calm your nerves."

"You're mad. You're a _servant_ , you can't—" There's no end to that thought once he's distracted by the sweet warmth of pumpkin ale. "Oh, God, that's good."

"New to you?"

"My mother." He shakes his head. "She would never allow it."

I wipe my mouth on my wrist, saying, "Here's to firsts. And lasts, I imagine." There is a guard on the other side of the dance floor casually twirling a wand. I keep my eye on him, but my companion heeds him not.

"Lasts?" he asks. "Are you passing through with one of the caravans?"

"You could say that."

"Oh." Quietly, he sips again.

By my design, we return to the alcove where I found him. He's restless enough that I feel I should send him on his way, having kept him from his job long enough, but, concerned about the ease of his smile now that he's finished his ale, I sit with him awhile yet. It doesn't hurt that his finger has been tracing the veins on the back of my hand for the past five minutes.

"Don't you ever just want to get out of here?" he asks, swaying towards me. I think he's trying to see the moon through the canopy, but I pretend he wants to put his head on my shoulder. "See the rest of the world? Do something exciting?"

"Well, yeah," I breathe...mostly because his hair smells of honey blossoms.

"We should go over the wall. We should—the two of us. You'd protect me, wouldn't you? You already have once today. And you seem fit enough." He closes his eyes, shaking a lock of hair into his face as he snickers. "I didn't mean that you're—I mean, you _are_ , but…"

"I feel the same," I burst out. This is silly. I know how silly it is to feel this way instantly, and I know I've had my share of lovers, but no person has ever aroused _all_ my senses so completely. And before I can babble this, I tell him, "What I mean is...I'd love to come. To protect you."

_Or to die quite happily in the sand._

"But it's suicide," I finish.

"Oh," he says again. One syllable never sounded so tragic.

A cheer comes from the direction of the rose garden, and it seems someone has won the dueling competition and is being hoisted onto many shoulders in front of the library. Library. Shit, Hermione! It's been over an hour! When I turn back to make my excuses, the young man's face is inches from mine.

"Where did you get that scar?" he whispers.

"Hm?" My hand goes to my forehead. "Oh. A scuffle with a ram when I was a boy."

"Oh. Harry…"

"Yes?"

He's come so close, sweet ale on his breath. "Who needs a stupid suitor?"

"I'm sorry?"

He kisses me. It's light like a breath of air. When he pulls back, his eyes are vivid with surprise, as if...

I ask him, "Have you never—?"

Then the blow comes.

I grasp at my neck. Something hot is choking me, pulling me back towards the festival, and although my new companion is screaming beside me, all I know is the agony of airlessness. I'm on the ground, and the force is dragging me over grass, through water, past feet and abandoned wine glasses, until I lay writhing in a circle of faces, all artfully made-up and aghast at the scene before them.

"Stop!" I hear. "Stop, he didn't do anything!"

"Stay back, boy. He won't be getting away with it this time."

The man wrangling me looks to have a magical whip protruding from the end of his wand, and one look at his face and I'm sure that he is the guard from town.

"There won't be a this time," my companion responds. "I demand you unhand him."

"Who are _you_ to make demands of me?"

My companion unclasps his cloak at the neck, and when it falls, a deep purple tunic, laced with silver and gold is revealed. He wears silken leggings and beautiful brown boots and a sash with the emblem of Hograbah emblazoned. I take this in, my chest clenching. Without a doubt, this is the royal family's garb, which means...

God in heaven.

"Do I need to make it plainer?" the young man asks, his voice harder than I've heard it all evening.

The guard is already kneeling. "Prince Draco! No, Sire, no. Forgive me, but this boy—"

"He was doing no harm."

"Sire, I understand your concern, but this boy is well known for thievery in the city. He has been sneaking over the wall from the _village_ for years."

Some women gasp. Men pull them away, as though I am contagious. The prince—and there's such shame in my heart when I look at him now—he is speechless, staring at me. I want to apologize for my lies, my lack of status, but now a man is pushing through the crowd, shouting.

"What is this commotion? Draco! There you are." The king looks upon me with distaste. "What is this?"

The guard wrenches me up by the scruff of the shirt. "I'm sorry to interrupt your festivities, Sire. I'm simply making an arrest. This boy was accosting the young prince."

The king eyes me like he's never seen me. "I see." He turns away, beckoning his son.

"No!" cries the prince, clutching his father's robes in a manner that clearly makes the king uncomfortable in front of his guests. "Father, he did no harm to me, I swear."

"Then there is nothing to fuss about. Now come. You are making a scene."

"But he—"

"He is a street rat. None of your concern."

These are words I'm accustom to. They have so far been matter-of-fact descriptors of my existence, but said in front of the young man I've grown so fond of, they are like daggers cutting me deep. I wait for the prince to heed his father's words, but strangely he turns to me with the same wonderment as before.

"He _is_ my concern. He saved me from—from certain maiming by a chicken, and...."

A few guests laugh and cough, and the man who produced the chicken is scratching his head, looking guilty; but _unamused_ does not begin to describe the look on King Lucius' face. 

"How kind of him," he says delicately. "He did, however, break the law, according to this officer, and magical law is—"

"Sacred as the Earth and eternal as the sun, Father, I _know_. And you are merely the facilitator thereof."

"I'm glad you've memorized it, son. But this boy—"

"My _friend_. My…" There is certain fear in his eyes. "Harry."

It seems the king is down to his last dregs of patience, as he digs his fingers into Draco's neck, as if to dare his son to defy him in public for even another second. 

"We can resolve this little escapade tomorrow," he says, leading his son away. "All citizens of the magical kingdom are entitled to formal trials before punishment."

The way he looks at me, this Prince Draco, almost as if I matter, makes me smile despite the humiliation of being chained around the neck like a dog. He knows now that I am beneath him, and yet he cares to look back. It makes him that much more precious to me.

The guard drags me away, past the suitors and King, past Hermione on the sidelines clutching Ron's arm, past the overlook of the village and the desert, where the sky is finally black and starry, but I see nothing but Draco. I know nothing but those silver eyes, which I try desperately to etch into memory, for I doubt I will know such beauty again.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

It is twelve days before the old man comes.

If not for the tiny hole near the ceiling, more a vent than a window, I would never have been able to count twelve long, stifling, lonely days, during which I start to doubt I'll ever see a human face again. 

When the door materializes in one of the stone walls that makes up my cell, even the dim torchlight is too much. I shield myself with a moldy blanket, numb to the smell of rat piss sopped into its fibers, and lower it painstakingly until I can focus on the man before me. All five feet and eighty pounds of him.

He breaks a gummy smile, gestures shakily, saying, "Come."

By God, I do.

There is no tribunal, like I expect. No judgement at all, just this feeble character hobbling down an unnaturally quiet alley, save his whispering and hissing. He says things I cannot decipher, perhaps speaking in a magical tongue, and I almost expect I hear a voice talking back, but what with the echoing in this hollow place it is difficult to say.

The old man trips on a crack in the earth, barely catching himself with the help of his walking stick.

I run forward. "Here, let me help—"

The walking stick transforms into a snake and lunges for me.

I yelp, leaning back. My terror echoes off the walls for a half minute afterwards, as the snake thrusts its tongue, examining me, almost as if it is reading my soul through scent.

When the old man holds out his hand, the snake returns, instantly solidifying.

"Come," he says to me. 

I feel I have no choice.

When we reach the desert, he explains, not that I understand anymore once he does. I retain the phrases "ancient magic" and "gift from the ancestors," but nothing stands out more than "freedom," as in, "Do this for me, and you can keep your freedom, boy."

"Okay," I say, unwilling to question that idea. "But this lamp you want me to fetch...what's so special about it?"

The old man stops hobbling, his gummy smile sinking into a frightening scowl. "That's _none_ of your business. Just make sure you touch _nothing_ but the lamp, once you're inside. Nothing! Bring it to me, and then, after that—"

"I get it. I can have my freedom."

Whatever this man's obsession, no matter. I do wonder, _why me?_ , but not for long. I woke up today convinced I'd rot in that cell, and if by tomorrow I'm back in my goat shelter sharing warm milk with Hermione, then that's good enough for me.

We are coming upon a dune so quickly that it seems to rise from the sand. The ground starts to quake. I stumble, mouth agape, realizing the dune _is_ rising from the sand, becoming an oddly shaped mountain. With ears. No! There is a face on the mountain—a face with noble, slitted eyes, a wide nose, and a mouth that opens to reveal gigantic fang-like teeth.

"Is that a lion?" I ask. "Is that seriously a lion? What's going on?"

"Come, come," the old man says, wrenching me by the tunic. 

It becomes apparent that what I thought was the rumbling of moving earth is actually rumbling from the lion's throat. 

When the old man calls out, his voice is deeper than before. "Lion!" he says. "I am—"

"Thomas Marvolo Riddle," the thing answers deeply and slowly. "I can smell just fine, human."

This name sounds familiar, but I do not inquire, for now the lion is inhaling like a living organism, and I am nearly swept off my feet. 

"This one…this boy…"

"I'm—" I glance at my companion and find him nodding vigorously. "I'm Harry!"

"Potter," answers the lion.

"I...don't know. I never knew my surname."

"It is Potter." The lion stares for a long while, his warm, dusty breath heaving over us, and then says, "You are a son of Gryffindor."

The old man starts. He is shaking his head, shocked, and now I am growing more suspicious, but before I can demand answers the lion is speaking again.

"Potter, you may enter. _Only_ you may enter."

My next question—"Enter where?"—falls short, as he opens his mouth as wide as it will go, revealing the extent of his teeth and a cavernous throat with torches on either side that begin to ignite one after the other. The lion's breaths still come, shallower now, and as he breathes his throat rasps, and with each rasp the torches flicker and cast light upon a set of stairs that lead down the back of his tongue.

My stomach drops.

"You can't be serious," I say, turning on the old man.

"Do you want your freedom or not?"

"It hardly seems worth it if I have to be swallowed!"

"Boy," he growls, letting his sleeve fall back to reveal the tip of a dagger. "Do you want to go back to the cell I dug you out from?" I slip backward, toward the lion. "It was no easy feat finding you—getting you out undetected. Do you think it was easy?"

"You're not…" I swallow, eyeing the dagger. "You said you weren't doing this because you're too old and weak. Right? That _is_ what you said."

"If I could do it myself, the job would be done. Tell me, if I thought you'd come to harm down there, then how would I expect to get my lamp?"

He has a point. 

I take a deep breath and step foot into the lion's mouth. 

It doesn't close upon me. So far, so good.

Behind me, there is a hiss, and not from the old man. "A Potter of Gryffindor! No wonder the spell showed us this fool of a boy. No wonder this smelly hole will accept him. Terrible...ssssmelly...lion…"

***

After an hour in the cavern, it's clear to me why the old man needed to warn me not to let my fingers stray. I've encountered no lamp, but temptation is abound—gold, more than I knew existed on this earth, from glittering chandeliers, to coins and jewels, to septars and goblets. Along the way, I see a ring with a ruby so dark red that it's nearly black, and strangely my mind jumps to a fantasy about presenting it to Prince Draco in a velvet box, but I shake the thought immediately. I will never see Draco again. Even if I made this cavern my personal bank, I'd never be good enough for a prince.

I'm about to head down one of many twisty tunnels, when there's a tap on my shoulder.

I spin around, fists springing up.

No one's there. Just another pile of gold and, behind it, a bronze coat rack covered in dusty old clothes.

"Hurry up," I whisper. "Just find the lamp and get out."

When I make for the tunnel, I feel the tap again and spin around so quickly that my foot slips in the dirt, and I stumble towards a nearby barrel of jewels. My heart jumps to my throat because I don't know what will happen if I defy the old man's warning— 

And then a force zips through the air, catching my body with ease.

The force, whatever it is, rolls me onto the ground, far away from the jewels as if it knows what it's doing, and then it looms over me—a huge sheet of silvery-black fabric, with its bottom corners touching the ground like they are feet and its top corners peering at me, as if in concern.

"Shit! Shit." I scramble towards a bare wall, holding up my hands. "I'm not going to touch anything, I swear."

The thing simply peers at me. Its shape is remarkably similar to a man's. It seems to be...

"A cloak?" I wonder aloud.

The hood portion of the fabric nods.

"You're a cloak that moves?"

It flops its top corners down to its sides, seeming to mimic a man with his hands on his hips, and I get the sinking feeling I'm being called stupid.

"Well, sorry! The clothes aren't animate where I'm from." I reach out to stroke its fine fabric. "Not that I have many clothes…"

It slaps my hand away.

"Sorry!"

The cloak flutters towards me, its intricate silver weave glistening in the torchlight, coming to rest in a hover near my shoulder. Then it starts wrapping itself around my arm.

"Oi! No, no, stop!" 

With the strangeness of the day, I don't think I'm out of line to fear death by strangulation of a villainous winter garment, and, to my dismay, it drags me deeper into the cave and no amount of resistance can stop it. We come to a rest in front of a gold mirror. In the reflection, where the cloak hides my arm, there is no arm at all.

"You're a flying cloak... _and_ you make things invisible?"

The cloak nods.

"Anything else? Do you cook, because I can't do anything but steal produce."

Its hood turns on me again. _Stupid_ , I hear acutely in my head.

"Fine, fine." I look around the expansive golden cavern and heave a sigh. "Don't suppose we could just grab a sackful of this gold and go _buy_ the old man a lamp?"

The cloak straightens out and flies ahead, seeming to point to a path.

"You're saying it's this way? Brilliant! Cloak, you're a life-saver. Let's—"

" _Harry…_ "

Cloak is tugging me excitedly, but I've gone still. I could have sworn I heard someone say my name. Finding nothing but the gold and jewels and the gigantic mirror, I dismiss the notion, and we charge on.

It doesn't take long. After two short tunnels and a bridge that stretches over a river of running gold—there it is. On a tall dias, in the center of a great empty chamber, with blue light seeming to tunnel down from the heavens, there is a simple Persian oil lamp.

"So, I can just grab it, then?" I ask Cloak.

He makes a _dunno_ gesture.

What else can I do? I run up the staircase, reach out, and slowly, carefully take the lamp.

Nothing happens.

I exhale, not even caring to examine the thing. "Let's get this back to the creepy old bloke, then."

On the way out, we pass the mirror again. Such a lovely mirror with its shiny frame and strange, runic etchings. I'm strangely drawn to it.

"Hold on, Cloak, I have to…"

As I approach, I hear it again. Surely, I hear it this time.

" _Harry…_ "

The closer I get, louder the voice becomes, until it is clear as day, as gentle and strong as a bird's wing. I know that voice.

"Draco," I say, reaching out but not touching the glass.

" _Harry_."

His voice is not joyous, but tremorous and guilty. An image materializes. Draco is sprawled over a luxurious bed of cushions, practically invisible in the cream-white fabric, but his face is shiny and pink and his eyes a turbulent shade of blue. He's hugging a pillow, sobbing, while a deep voice drones out of sight.

"So he was executed, Draco. So what? He broke the law."

"You _said_ he'd be given a fair trial! You promised, Father."

"He was not a citizen of the magical district, nor is there even a record of him as a serving boy. If what the guard says was true, he has probably been spared a difficult life."

"He was…" Draco shakes his head, saying almost imperceptibly into his pillow, "...different."

"The sooner you get over this, the sooner you can choose a suitor and move on with your life. Your little charity case, while admirable, did not pan out." When Draco remains silent, there is a great sigh. King Lucius appears in the frame, reaching for his son's shoulder, but then thinking better of it. His face hardens. "Tomorrow we will discuss our options. Agreed? After the spectacle you made at the Courting Fair, we're lucky there's any interest at all. Prince Zabini, for instance…"

The scene fades, Draco's freshly welling eyes along with it, and I am left to exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding. 

"I'm sorry," I say unconsciously, leaning forward to grab the— 

—fuck. I grab the mirror's frame.

Outside, there is a roar like a thousand storms. Instantly, the mirror cracks and crumbles upon my feet. Walls begin to quake. Ground splits and steam hisses out, and the coins and jewels of the great cavern begin to trickle into those gashes, treasures surely bound for a deeper, more hellish safeguard.

"I guess this thing counts as treasure," I say, stumbling where I stand.

"POTTER," the lion roars. "BETRAYER!"

Thank God for new friends. Before I can ask, Cloak shoots under my feet, and in a flash we're off towards the lion's mouth.

"YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR HASTE!"

"It was an accident!" I shout.

My pleas mean little to the lion. His cursing resounds through the belly of the cave, even as his insides quiver, crumbling upon us shards of chandelier glass. I press close to Cloak, squinting into the sulfurous air, as debris swirls, flecking against my cheeks like glass. Then come the boulders. A small one misses me, pulled down by a falling silver sconce, but no matter: there is the entrance, a mouth that articulates with each furious roar. 

I reach for the night sky. I can feel it on my fingertips when I'm jerked forward through the air—with a cavernous hole opening beneath me—and I'm barely able to grasp the edge of the lion's mouth and hang on for dear life.

The old man appears above me, frantic. "Did you get it?"

"Yes, but—"

I look over my shoulder. On the other side of the hole, Cloak has been caught beneath a fallen chunk of stone.

"Help me up!" I shout to the old man.

"The lamp, first! Give it to me."

"I can't." I close my eyes as he probes in my tunic, where he finds the lamp tucked in the waistband of my trousers. "There, you have it. Now help me."

He smiles in his gummy way. "No, Gryffindor."

"Why do you keep calling me that? Why does _he_ —?"

_He_ meaning the lion, still flailing around us. I press closer to the wall, legs kicking, useless; a falling stone has narrowly missed scraping my back.

"You know, I started out in the poor village myself," says the old man. "But I was cleverer than you. I decided early that I didn't want those elitists in the city hoarding all the magic for themselves...so I learned it."

I feel my hands shaking...

"I snuck into their libraries...channeled magic from stolen objects...even took a wand off a dead man, once I got the chance…" I'm revolted when he smiles at me, as a dozen new teeth begin to pop through the flesh of his gums. "This kingdom we live in, it's a false one. One built on the greed of a self-righteous few, who ousted the families of old—" 

"I don't _care_ ," I shriek. "I just want to live. _Please_. Take my hand."

"Don't you get it?"

I'm already more frightened than I've ever been, so when the old man's face begins to bubble into a new one, the only emotion I can drum up is confusion. The face above me now is young and pale and familiar: Tom Riddle. The king's advisor. That's how I know that name.

"I will take back the world that belongs to me," Riddle shouts, holding the lamp triumphantly over his head. "And, lucky me. The one person powerful enough to challenge me is going to die before the start! Goodbye, Harry Potter. Or shall I say—Gryffindor?"

"No, no, no!"

It's too late. The madman kicks my fingers, sending me spiraling into a black abyss.


	3. CHAPTER THREE

Early one morning, I trudge to the far edge of my village and find Hermione where I knew she'd be: under the tree outside her window on a bench made from petrified wood, her nose deep in some book I'm sure she didn't come by exactly lawfully.

She looks up, hearing the crunch of gravel under boots.

"Harry?"

When I grin and hold out my hands, she springs for me without hesitation.

"Harry! Oh my God..."

I embrace her, turning away from a mouthful of wild hair, laughing just the same.

"Where have you been?" Hermione asks, tears in her eyes. "They said you were dead! They said you were—oh, my goodness." She hugs me again at length, and when she pulls back she's already looking for a way to admonish me. "What are you wearing under there?"

I dodge her hands as she begins to rummage in my cloak. "Behave," I tell her. "Your parents will see you getting fresh."

"They're selling goats in Morocco. Now, don't change the subject. Harry, your nails are clean! And you've shaven!" She pulls me back to the bench, suddenly paranoid the neighbor some ten house-lengths away might spot us. "Harry, whatever you've done, you could get into a lot of trouble."

I rest my head against the tree and sigh. "No one's getting into trouble. Listen, there's something I've got to tell—"

"Because Ron's been saying the king's advisor had you executed."

I snort. "Riddle made that call, did he? Figures."

"How'd you get out of prison? Did you—?" Her eyes go wide, flicking up and down, as she takes in my appearance from the fine leather boots, to the beaded waistcoat, to the clean white collar. "Did you kill someone and steal their clothes to escape?"

"Oh, you know me. But don't worry, I burned the corpse after."

"Harry!"

"Well, if you'd pipe down for a moment, I could explain."

***

I open my eyes, but there is still darkness. And an incessant squeaking noise.

"What…"

I'm laying on cold stone. Who knows how long I've been unconscious? There is a dim light some feet away, and within it Cloak is making some circular repetitive motion, the source of the squeaking. 

"What are you doing?"

His hood pops up, seeming to regard me, and then he zips over and shoves something small and heavy into my arms.

"The lamp," I chuckle. He must have wrestled it off the old man. Off _Riddle_. "Good going. Bastard got what was coming to him. And you saved me, didn't you?"

The old rag has the gall to look bashful, so I swat him in thanks. He hurries on rubbing the lamp, that annoying squeak, squeak, squeak, making my eardrums stand on end. "Stop it, already. It's shiny enough. Oh. You want me to—?"

So I set about rubbing it myself, because a flying Cloak is asking me to, and don't I need all the skilled friends I can get in the situation I find myself? The bit of torchlight he's rummaged up affords me the opportunity to examine my surroundings: there's a tunnel blocked by a boulder, a crevice behind me that leads to certain doom, and, otherwise, thick stone walls. Unless Cloak can find a crevice to wriggle us out through, I don't imagine this street rat will roam again.

I toss the lamp back to Cloak, saying, "There, happy?"

"Atrocious, Potter. Try again."

Well. I'm certain that's not Cloak's voice.

I turn slowly, only to find myself looking into a plume of thick black smoke. My eyes follow it up, up to—dear God! My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

It is a man. But not a man, because he's _floating_ , with his black-clad arms crossed, looking down a prominent nose at me, with eyes as dark as coals that positively _exude_ disgust. His skin is pallid, his teeth discolored and unevenly spaced, his hair quite limp, and the fingers that tap against his forearms stained with some kind of purple solution. I've never been so put off by someone the moment I laid eyes on him.

"I'm not thrilled either," the floating man says.

"Er—"

My hand wants to jut out to make introductions—what else do you do with a monster you're certain could end you in one breath?—but he seems to read my thoughts as he curls his lip and begins floating in a circle of his own smoke around me.

"No need for niceties," he says, words clipped. "Let us get this over with."

"Er, what?"

"I see. You drag me out of my home without even having your wishes in order. I was brewing something, and now its probably ruined. I would turn you into dust if it weren't strictly out of the question."

"Your home?" Cloak is being helpful, pointing to the lamp frantically, and I, clearly eager to make my ignorance known to the world, ask, "You _live_ in there?"

The floating man narrows his eyes. "Have you never heard of a djin?"

"Sure, in fairy tales. But I never really thought the all-powerful magic thing was real."

"Oh, I'm not real am I?" he asks, shooting far too close.

"No! Of course, you're real, but—"

"What kind of a wizard are you? One of those new-age, herbal-crystal-leaning sorts with the feathers?"

"I'm not any kind. I'm just a boy."

When he sniffs, one nostril flares wide. "A boy? Perhaps not fully trained, then? How old?"

"I don't know. Maybe twenty-five? But I'm not trained at all! I'm not a wizard."

"You _are_ a wizard. I can smell it on you."

"No! I'm not. I was born in the village, so I didn't...you know...go to school, or anything." I throw up my hands. "I'm nothing."

The djin pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering, "I suppose there could be stupider masters...we'll have to see…"

I'm so indignant at being called stupid continuously—I mean, first by a sheet of fabric and now by some celestial bat-looking fellow, who may or may not even be real—that I hardly notice him call me his— 

"Hold on. Master? I'm your master?"

"Hmm. Maybe there couldn't be stupider ones. Yes, Potter, you are my…" He bares his teeth with no small amount of abhorrence. "... _master_."

It's an overwhelming word. In fact, my mind has gone completely blank. Me, someone's master? I prop myself against the wall to steady my nerves, while I _think_. Which is hard with the djin peering down at me impatiently, like I'm meant to burst forth with predetermined desires: _Money! Fame! Women! New teeth!_

Instead, I say, "How do you know my name?"

"I do have _ears_ , despite their translucent quality. The Gryffindor lion is as insufferably loud as most with that namesake."

"Oh."

The djin floats closer. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Three. _Wishes_."

"Just like that? I really get three wishes? Whatever I want in the whole world?"

"Mmm."

Despite being trapped indefinitely in an underground prison, the first word I think is, " _Draco_ …"

I whisper the name more to myself than the djin, though that doesn't stop him from swooping down upon me with his accusing stare.

"I can't make anyone fall in love with you! And, while we're on the subject, I can't murder, or bring anyone back from the dead, no matter how much you may have loved your dear Aunt Mildred. Get some sense into you!"

"No! It's not that. He already…" I rub the back of my neck, smiling, thinking of _Draco's_ cheeky smile while I'm at it. "Well...I'm pretty sure he loves me already."

"My, aren't we confident? Just like a Potter."

My eyebrows shoot up at this comparison. "What do you mean?"

It's strange. The djin doesn't look to understand his words either. For a moment, the darkness, the emptiness of the cavern is the only thing I see in his eyes, until at last he curls his lip, staring blankly at the wall, and says, "Just get on with it."

"Right." I nod slowly. "It's just...this boy...Draco. Even if he likes me, I can't be with him, can't court him at all, because he's a prince and I'm...well, I told you. I can't even do magic. And that bit would be objectionable even if I _did_ have royal status to offer him."

" _Why_ do you keep saying that? It's not as if you're a Muggle, Potter. Observe—" The djin searches the empty cave, and snatches Cloak from where he stands. "This looks suitably flammable."

"Flammable? No!" 

When Cloak pulls free and cowers behind me, I throw the djin a dirty look. 

"You want something flammable? Use wood or manure."

"Do you see either of those things?" he barks. "Fine. Come with me."

Quite instantly, I go from standing in a cold cave to being ankle deep in sand, dropping to my knees from the shock of it. My mouth hangs open, disbelieving, but it's real. I let the sand run through my fingers. Warm, so warm from the morning light. I find myself laughing. 

The djin pays me no mind, returning with a strip of bark from an Argania tree. He thrusts it at me. "Make fire."

Now it's _his_ turn to receive the you're-so-stupid look. "I _can't_."

His hand is firm and cold on mine. He forces me to touch my heart, and says, "Do you feel that? It's not just a heartbeat. It's a force of energy. The sooner you learn to harness it, the less irritating you'll be. I'll show you this time."

I gasp. My chest has exploded with warmth. He keeps his hand there so long the warmth begins to swirl and tickle, and I must quell the urge to laugh, and after what seems like five minutes with Cloak and I glancing awkwardly at each other, the djin closes his eyes, and says again, "Make fire."

Does he not have ears? Furious, I shout, "HOW?" and the bark goes up in flames. "Oh, shit!"

He removes his hand, whipping out a handkerchief made of fog and wiping his palm. "Indeed. A wand would channel it, make it easier, but you don't require it."

There's nothing to say except, "Thank you."

"Mmm." He pinches the flaming bark out with a giant thumb and forefinger. "Now then, that's two wishes out of the way. One more and I can return to my Draught of—"

"Two wishes? I didn't make _any_ wishes."

"I saved you from the bowels of that cave, did I not? I gave you your magic, did I not?"

"I didn't _ask_ for either of those things!"

"It matters little. I used my magic to give you what you did not have before, or what you did not _think_ you had before, and now you are down to one wish. Choose wisely, boy."

I am livid. This man—I _knew_ I didn't like him. Now, I'm not about to scoff at the chance to wish for anything in the entire world, even if it is only one thing, but this man (this _entity_ ) is too pompous not to toy with.

"Fine," I say, holding out a casual hand and sharing a knowing look with Cloak (I think). "All I care about is Draco. _But_...now that you've taught me how to feel my magic, perhaps I'll just spend some time studying, conjure up a way to make myself seem princely, and then use my third wish to banish you to your lamp for all eternity."

The smoke that surrounds the djin begins to swirl, his gentle clouds growing storm-like, his robes expanding into mountainous sheets darker than the blackest black, which apparently shocks Cloak so much flits behind me again. The djin looks down at me with stormy eyes and when I do not so much as blink, he curls his lip and deflates.

"Three wishes," he growls quietly. "No more. Make them _quick_."

I lean on the tree, smiling. "So what would you wish for if you were me?"

"I have no need for idle fantasies. Even when I was a man, I cared little for fancy."

"You were a man?"

He seems to curse himself. "Yes. I remember none of it."

"Oh, come on. What about all that stuff about—what was it? Annoying Potters? And what about everything you know about human magic?"

"Bits and pieces of otherwise foggy memories. I know Potters are objectionable, but not why. I know the Gryffindor lion is an entity I'd just as soon avoid. Except for light and fog, the occasional bit of sky, there is no specific image. Except..." He sighs through his nose, adding quietly, "No matter."

He floats towards the Argania tree.

I wander over to watch him billow pensively in the leaves. "What do you remember?"

"It's no one of consequence."

"Oh, it's a _person_." 

That earns me a glare. He drops to my level, speaking in a voice so quiet, so chilling that school children would cower in their seats. 

"Potter, let me make this clear. My private life, my past, does not concern you. It will do no good to drum it up, because it is forever lost, never to be found again unless I suddenly become human, which is impossible."

Cloak and I share another glance (I think), and I shrug. "What if I wish it?"

"Nonsense," the djin snaps. "Let's get on with this. What do you want? Your prince, your magic, your fortune? Done."

"Hey, I'm serious. I can wish you human again. After my first two wishes, I'll just, you know...free you."

"And you think I should just trust you?"

"Cloak," I call, hopping on when he appears, flying to hover face to face with the djin. I hold out my hand. "I've never broken a promise."

The djin eyes me like I am something repulsive, but slowly, very slowly, puts his hand into mine. "Very well." He breaks into what might be the most hideous smile I've ever witnessed. "But if you betray me, you will no longer be my master. Which means I can wreak vengeance any way I like."

"Great, whatever. By the way—I'm Harry. I think I'd prefer it to _Potter_. Thanks."

Not for the first time that day, I feel as though he'd love nothing more than to squash me like a bug. He does not. He barks, "Snape," whirls around, and starts back towards Hograbah.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

"Harry," Hermione says loudly, as her horse bumps her up and down. "Did Snape say anything else about your history? Did Riddle?"

I'm doing my best to keep my chin up as we march towards the palace gates. Snape has conjured a parade suitable for a prince of any stature, with dozens of servants in the caravan, as well gifts aplenty: goats, sheep, a hundred chickens in a gilded cart, fruit from all regions of the world, woven baskets, fabrics in colors I've never seen, as well as beautiful maidens who, as far as I can tell, exist for no reason but to throw petals at my horse's feet. What with the extravagance of the display, you'd think Hermione would pipe down and embrace the joyful attention we're getting from the people of Hograbah, but she won't drop the bloody story now that I've told it to her.

"Not now, sister," I say. _Sister_ —the only way I could think to get her into the castle with me. I'll need an advisor who doesn't despise me to my core.

"But they were both so final about your ancestry," she continues, tossing a pear to a small boy running alongside her steed. "And Potter is _not_ just a name. It's a name they seem to think matters enough to remember. Oh, I can't wait to get to the library! There's got to be more information on—"

"It would not behoove you to jump to conclusions, _goat herder_."

Ugh. I don't see Snape, but he seems to have transformed into something small enough that only Hermione and I can hear him. Perhaps one of the flies on my horses arse, I think, smirking.

"One has to be invited to stay in the castle before one can pillage it," he explains.

"Yes, well." Hermione blows a lock of hair out of her face that keeps falling from her veil. "We look nice enough. I'm sure there will tea and smoking, at the very least."

"A woman of class…" Snape mutters.

I wish I had her confidence. My chest juts out, one hand poised on my sword-side hip, the other occasionally waving kindly to old women, but all I know in my heart is fear that I won't even see Draco long enough to ask to court him. And what if his father was right? Was I his charity case? Perhaps, did the pumpkin ale influence his affections?

"What about dates and places, Harry?" Hermione asks.

"Sister. You are ruining my grand entrance, so will you please—"

My stomach jumps. I sit up straight, for horns are picking up at the head of the parade. The drums have started to boom. A flock of yellow birds shoots off ahead, as if to clear a path that belongs only to me. Flower petals rain down from no where and with them handkerchiefs from ladies and pink-curtain boys in windows above. I catch one and kiss it, to the delight of a veiled woman. Applause and laughter shower upon me, and the Hograbah Palace gates open, trumpets bleat, sounding out as a commanding voice resounds from nowhere:

"Citizens of Hograbah! Let it be known that Prince Harold of—" the announcer says something garbled "—approaches!"

If Snape were apparent, I'd shoot him a dirty look. He seems to sense my confusion, saying, "I didn't work out all the details of Prince Harold's history. But royalty is royalty. My _Liege_."

The golden domes of the palace blind me with their magnificent glow, and when the light has cleared enough that I can stop shielding my face, the horses have come to a stop. Without warning, I find myself beckoned off my horse by a fat wizard and to a Grand Hall decked with silken hangings. My heart begins to pound against my ribs, under the assumption I'll be found out immediately. Shit, I can't even look behind me to be sure Hermione is still there, because I'm being announced into the bloody throne room. The _throne_ room.

It's not what I expect. Some kind of official should be greeting me: a Manager of Suitors, a Screener for Body Odors, at the very least. Even that Tom Riddle character, but no. It's King Lucius himself. He sits on an immaculate throne of gold and silken cushions, stroking the hand of the queen, who is even more beautiful today than she was at the Courting Fair, and to the king's left...there is Draco.

I cannot contain my smile.

For a moment, I think he recognizes me. A hitch of breath overcomes him. His eyes flick from my face to my chest and back again. Then he presses his lips together and turns away, one finger curling wistfully through the lock of hair tucked behind his ear as he watches a passing cloud.

All right, then.

I turn my smile on Hermione, the sister who joins me at my right, knowing I must heed the advice she's been giving me all morning: impress first, confess later. If I make the best of these first moments, the rest will follow and then Draco—what? _What?_ Hermione's looking at my head like it's sprouting a shrub. My hat! I snatch it off, making an apologetic face at the queen. And, shit, now I'm hoping my hair is in place, but I can't pat it down without looking a right fool.

"We heard your parade from a mile off," King Lucius is saying from over steepled fingers. His smile is cool, but welcoming. "Very impressive. Especially the elephants."

"Thank you, sir," I say with as much confidence as I can muster. "I'll have to show you all the tricks they can do."

The queen leans forward, smiling with not a trace of the boredom that consumed her at the Faire. "That would be lovely. Wouldn't that be lovely, Draco?"

I'm sure the prince is meant to agree, except he doesn't even appear to have heard the question, too focused on the task of tracing his lips with his finger and staring at the buckle on his shoe. 

The queen recovers quickly, wisps of hair fluttering beneath her veil as she turns on me with much interest. "It _is_ rather early for excitement, Prince...Harold, was it?" 

"Yes, Ma'am." I step forward and bow...and have the heart-stilling realization that I don't know how long to bow. I peek up. She is still smiling that thin, controlled smile, so it seems like this will do. I rise, but my confidence begins to deflate as the king continues to examine me, waiting for something else. "Oh!" I exclaim. "Prince Harold of...of Gryffindor!"

"Gryffindor," he says, cocking his head to one side. "Strange, I didn't know there was still a land _of_ Gryffindor."

"Small province now, sir. It's to the left of London, if you're facing Marrakech. Oh, oh! And this is my sister, Hermione."

Beside me, she practically radiates discomfort, and Snape...I think he's in my back pocket sniggering. I resist the urge to clench my buttocks on him.

The king and queen stare for so long that I break into sweat. Hermione hooks a warning finger into my sleeve, urging me to remember some rehearsed formality, I'm sure, but I plow on mindlessly.

"Gryffindor is very far away. And very ancient. Full of gryffins. Some doors. And—and—" Seeing how Draco has turned completely towards the window like that caged bird he spoke of at the party, I stop. This is not working. "Your Majesty," I say, putting my hand over my heart. "I know how beautiful the city of Hograbah is, and how abundant the lands, and how joyous the people...but I didn't come here to enjoy those things. I came only to admire your son."

The king lifts his chin slowly. "Many come for that reason."

"Yes, but—" I take a nervous breath. "May I approach?" When he gestures a come-hither, I very nearly run to the base of the throne dias. "This is not the first time I've seen him," I announce.

Now, Draco looks. His eyes flare up, but not in recognition—in embarrassment.

"It most certainly _is_ ," he says, glancing at his mother, who shoots the most scandalized look at me.

"Are you _quite_ sure?" she asks.

Now they are all scowling. I can feel Hermione's eyes boring into my temple, urging me to get back to the proper plan, but now that I've started on the truth I have to finish.

"My lady, I misspoke," I say. At the same moment, I notice a large decorative mirror hanging above the trio of thrones. One with a massive golden frame. Truly, a treasure. "I have encountered many oddities in my travels. One such oddity was a mirror, which seemed to show glimpses of the onlooker's deepest desire. Looking into it, I saw not my own reflection, but a strange young man of great ambition, cleverness, and beauty." I smile, remembering the way Draco's eyes sparkled in that mirror—though, sparkle they did with tears—knowing he was thinking of only me. "He had hair white as spun silver," I say, letting my eyes slide over Draco. "Skin like alabaster. Eyes like jewels. And, at one point, he smiled at me the most trusting smile I've ever known, as though I could save him. _Me_. This lowly prince from nowhere."

And though he showed me that trust only once, tipsy under a moss tree, stroking the back of my hand likely knowing he'd never see me again, it meant as much to me as that vision in the magic mirror. Both times, I wanted to give him what he needed. Now, as he looks at me, lips pinching, head shaking slowly with curiosity, I want nothing more than to take him into my arms, and...

I clear my throat, turning back to the king.

"Of course, that was merely a fantasy, sir. A trick of that odd mirror, but a fitting one, because the royal messengers came to my land with your son's portrait not longer after."

Draco appears overcome with shock, this time directing it at his father, to which King Lucius shrugs, saying, "How else does one get suitors to come?"

Despite my speech and the telling flush still adorning Draco's cheeks, he huffs. 

"I'm sorry you've come all this way, Prince Harold, but I'm not interested. Please refresh your party and be on your way."

"Draco," the queen snaps. "Mind yourself."

Almost imperceptibly, Lucius mutters, "Remember our deal." One foot is tapping on the floor. He is nervous, I realize, that Draco will lose an opportunity that is perhaps his last.

Draco is unphased. He holds up his chin, much like he did that moment he first observed me as a servant in the alcove in the gardens, seeming to ask, _Do you really think you can handle me, Prince Harold?_ and, _Dear Lord,_ I think, biting the inside of my cheek...I'd dearly love to try.

"Fine," he says. "But let me ask you...did this painting portray me adequately?"

I smile, saying with honesty, "There is no comparison."

"Hm." 

He looks out the same window like nothing ever happened, waiting a heavy moment before speaking again.

"Prince Harold may call on me at a time of his choosing."

I feel I might faint. There is a collective sigh, visible only by the slump of the king and queen's shoulders, and once that has been settled, it feels like we're swept aside instantly. The royals and servants spring into action with formal ados and gestures for my party to situate itself in such-and-such wing, and Hermione is widening her eyes at me like a mad woman, making me exclaim, "Oh, Queen Narcissa!"

She turns, having been en route back to her chambers.

"My sister is a most voracious reader," I tell her, "and we have heard tales of a collection of books that your palace holds that rivals any collection on the continent...."

"Yes, we take much pride in our library."

"I wonder if she might occupy herself there during our stay. She would quickly bore of all this gentlemen's business, though she is too polite ever to say so."

"Of course," the queen says graciously, turning to Hermione. "Princess, do follow me."

The look Hermione gives me over her shoulder would brighten my day if it weren't already beaming like the sun, for I'm already busy thinking of ways to entertain Draco, subjects to speak of, gifts to brings him, so busy I don't notice a man step out of the shadows as I walk down the corridor to my guest quarters.

"Prince Harold."

I don't need magic to know who's standing behind me.

"Leave us, please," I say to the boy leading me to my quarters, and turn to find Tom Riddle scowling through my very soul.

"Prince Harold of _Gryffindor_." His lips curl into a dark, handsome smile. "I believe the king is correct. There doesn't seem to be _any_ Land of Gryffindor to the knowledge of our finest geographer. Tell me, do you have any histories or documents to validate its existence?"

"Oh, sure. You'd be surprised what one could _dig up_ in this world of ours." I stroll forward to pat him on the lapel. He very nearly growls at me as I smile, saying, "No worries, Riddle. I'm sure once Draco and I are married, we'll equip ourselves with an advisor better suited to these tasks. You seem better suited for _treasure_ hunting."

Riddle's staff coils into a live snake, hisses, and lunges for me, and I'm only somewhat prepared for the attack, throwing up the blade hanging off my hip and swiping it with all my force. There's a lightning shock. The snake, which pulled back on sight of my sword, catches the brunt of the shock and falls limp at our feet.

Not what I intended, that's for sure.

"I see you're using your wishes wisely," Riddle spits, his eyes glowing with anger.

Before he can call the guards on me, I crack a nervous smile, turn on my heel, and head off to find my quarters.


	5. CHAPTER FIVE

I call on Draco three days later. This does not speak of a lack of eagerness on my part but of advice from Hermione: "If you expect to entertain him like a prince, you'll have to prepare better than you did for our arrival. Honestly, Harry. Your hair was sticking up everywhere."

At the time, I cast a look at the black cloud floating over the bedroom balcony, saying, "Styling was Snape's department."

"There was no magic powerful enough to tame it," he scoffed.

And with those encouraging words, I bought some normal Muggle hair oil—which works _fine_ , thank you—had Hermione research some topics Draco might find interesting to discuss, and briefly considered using my second and final wish to give myself a complete magical education. Hermione reminded me, however, that with access to an extensive library, that would be a wish wasted.

When I call on Draco, I am told to meet him in the gardens next to the grove of lemon trees, and, not having seen many lemons in my life, I'm busy examining the dimpled fragrant flesh and don't notice when he appears.

"I thought we could take a short walk," he says, gliding right past me in a fitted tunic and matching lavender trousers. 

"Oh—" I hurry after him before losing him in the hanging-vine trees. "I thought we might go riding. You like riding, yes? There's a stallion of mine—quite majestic and friendly—or we could take an elephant—"

He stops abruptly, not looking at me, but out at the fish pond. I stumble to avoid bumping into him. 

"My feet are bare," he says.

They are. And perfectly manicured.

"Do you have no boots?" I ask.

He gives me a withering look. Rather, he gives my _shoulder_ a withering look. It's hard to be bothered by it with his hair falling into his eyes just so. 

"I'm not prepared for riding," he tells me. "You should have sent word ahead."

"Right."

An apology is on the tip of my tongue, but he's already padding away on the garden stones which I imagine are smooth and comfortably warm on his feet. Such lovely feet. Should I take my shoes off, or—?

"Come along then, Prince Harold. I have an engagement in a little while."

"Ah, may I ask what you are—?"

"Prince Zabini of Naples. He's taking me to sample _olive oil_."

As humorous as it might normally be to hear _olive oil_ referred to with the same excitement one might use to refer to _dung_ , I'm far from amused. I struggle to keep my tone even.

"Is he?"

"Mmm."

Draco wanders around an orange tree, humming an Arabian lullaby through his stuck up little nose (pretty, though it may be, I've just noticed how damn stuck up it is), while I shoot around the other side, cutting him off.

"Isn't it a little imprudent to discuss other prospects with the suitor who's currently calling?"

"I don't know, Prince Harold. Is it more or less imprudent than declaring our impending marriage to my father's advisor right in the middle of the palace foyer?" 

Ah. 

He's already walking again and deadset on not looking me in the eye, not even long enough to notice how very remorseful I am. When pleading doesn't work, I must touch his shoulder to get his attention, and he whirls around, batting me off.

"Let me make this clear," he says with narrowed eyes. "Despite my housebound status, I not a rug, a lamp, a bed, or any other piece _property_. Does that make sense to you?"

"I know. I made a terrible mistake. But—"

"You did! And it won't happen again, because I _don't_ want you. You may be as charming and handsome as any prince in the world, but you're _arrogant_. Just like every other prince and king to prance through here, hoping to take me away and lock me up in his palace! So take your _charming words_ and your _stuffed shirt_ and be gone!"

When he sticks his finger into my chest, it's as good an opportunity as any to pull him close by the arm and hold him still, though the words I growl are not what I anticipate: "I promise you, Prince Draco, _nothing_ on me is stuffed."

To my shame, I deeply enjoy the flush that creeps across Draco's nose as he glances fleetingly downward. I watch his throat work, his lips move in shocked silence, before he whispers, "You've overstepped your bounds, sir."

He wrenches himself free, turning for the palace.

"Wait! Draco, let me—"

When I grab him, he slaps me hard across the face. "I did _not_ give you permission to address me by name!"

By the time I regain my senses, my cheek burning with pain and shame, he is long gone.

***

Hermione leaps off the ottoman as soon as I return to my chambers, and I bypass her to flop onto the bed and press my face into the pillow.

"Harry, you're not going to believe me, but I've got amazing news! Just sit down and listen for a—" She deflates. "What happened?"

"Well, I'm an idiot, for one. You were both right," I add to Cloak and Snape, who are floating around the room with a checkerboard between them. 

Snape nods wisely. "Your hair offended him."

"My hair was never…" I sigh, turning to Hermione. "Draco heard me tell Riddle that I intend to marry him. I guess I was a bit too confident for his liking."

"Oh, Harry." The bed slumps with her weight. She must really care, because she sets a mighty book aside to pat my back. "What are you going to do now?"

"Throw in the towel and wish myself a hundred dancing hookers, I imagine."

"Done." Snape prepares to snap his fingers.

"That was not a wish!" I say, pointing Snape back to his game. 

I can see why he's so uncharacteristically eager to converse, as Cloak seems to be crushing his army and looking right smug about it. Snape bows over the board, his black plume flicking like an angry tail, while Hermione seems unaffected, pressing two eager hands onto her book.

"Well," she says, trying hard to contain her excitement. "I _did_ learn something that might cheer you up, Harry."

When she pushes the fat leather-bound thing at me, it's all I can do not to swipe it away, instead asking, "Can you give me the fine points, please? I'm not in the mood."

"Sure. Well." She claps her hands together and bursts out, "There _was_ a land of Gryffindor! It was simply overthrown by the kingdom of Slytherin several generations ago!"

"Yeah, that does make me feel better. Thanks, 'Mione."

"And," she says, ignoring me in favor of flipping to a page with an elaborate family tree. "You _are_ its prince."

"Er…"

I lean over the book. The chart and characters mean little to me, but if I know Hermione, she's done her research down to the minutia. Which scares me shitless.

Hesitant, I say, "Tell me more?"

The moon is rising over a deep sapphire sky by the time she's finished. I'm spent on the wine, cheese, and fruit sent by Ron, laying my head on a bed of pillows we set up on the balcony, as Hermione sits cross-legged, still gesturing with her hands as she rattles about the Potter family of Hograbah, the ones who were run off by the neighboring kingdom of Slytherin, the Potters whose fortunes were hidden in the belly of a lion, never to be touched until a rightful Gryffindor heir is restored to power.

What I'm still wondering is, "Are we the only ones who know this?"

"I'm sure some-odd historian knows," Hermione reasons, "but old names are usually wiped out by the conquering power. Anything I figured out, it was because I was looking for it." She sighs, stroking the book with her knuckle, like it's a treasured child. "Oh, Harry. Magic is more amazing and capable than I ever thought! This book updates _itself_ with each rightful heir born. So, if you ever have a son or daughter…"

"They'll be on the next tree branch…" 

I smile, my head filling with visions of blond children dancing in a Persian garden. Draco, as far-fetched as it seems now, is sitting next to me, sipping the pumpkin ale he'd so enjoyed at the Courting Fair, holding my hand, his skin soft under my stroking thumb. How strange it would be to have a family, an identity.

"Hold on," I realize. "That Riddle knew who I was. Somehow he knew I'd be able to walk into the lion's mouth. How do you think that is?"

She is staring at something over my shoulder, perhaps one of the song-birds that hang off many of the palace windows. Absently, she says, "I have no interest in delving into that mind. You should just stay away from him, Harry."

"He said _he_ was part of an old family and seemed pretty bitter about it…"

"Would you like to come to the library with me tomorrow? You might figure it out for yourself."

"Ha," I say uncomfortably. "No, I know all I need to."

Snape floats out of the bedroom with both arms crossed. Funny, I thought he'd locked up in his lamp for the night.

"Do I sense a wish coming on?" he asks.

I'm genuinely confused. "What wish?"

He gives one of those lengthy nose-sighs of his. "To re-found your rightful kingdom, Potter. At which point you may unearth your fortune and go off and do—" He gestures with vague annoyance into the distance. "Whatever boy kings do."

It's tempting, but…

"No," I say emphatically. "Who knows how a wish like that could change the world? Who knows if that would invite another war, or even lose me my opportunity with Draco?"

Hermione, for all her excitement about the news, is quiet, blinking strangely at me and turning her head so that I can only see the thick braid hanging over her shoulder.

"Hermione?"

"It's nothing."

"Hey," I laugh gently. "Did you think I'd run off and become a king and leave you behind?"

She shrugs, pulling her book close to her chest.

I reach over the platter of food to squeeze her arm. "I'd sooner marry Snape."

Which is true, despite the image that comes to mind—Snape's nose sticking out from under a white veil. Hermione is the best friend I could ask for, looking after me all these years, risking her life to sneak me into the palace on my whims alone. Hell, I should probably use my last wish to grant her a house made of books, if anything.

She blinks her tears away, seeming to sense my devotion. "Thank you, Harry. Oh, what about Snape? He was trapped in the Gryffindor vault, too. In that lamp. You don't remember a _thing_ about why?" she asks the man question.

"No, I do not, goat herder."

Hermione pops a grape into her mouth, staring over my shoulder again. "There was no mention of a Snape anywhere, so I don't think he's related to you, Harry. For all we know, he's been trapped in that lamp for thousands of years, and the last person to access the vault just stashed him there."

"Yeah, but he mentioned the name Potter with a certain hateful flair," I remind her. "So I'm pretty sure the feeling is recent."

Snape has grown tired of our banter, it seems: "Now, speaking of things that _irritate_ me. This wish in question, my prince…?"

I'm _this_ close to wishing for Snape to cauterize his mouth shut.

"Look," I snap. "I'll use my last wish as soon as it pleases me. Maybe sooner if you'd do what you're bloody made for and help me win Draco."

He lifts both eyebrows, remaining quiet and collected. "Made for…"

"Yes! What the hell are you good for if you're just hovering around playing board games all day? You may not remember what it's like being human, but here's a hint: we're mortal and we don't have all eternity to mope around before getting our business done."

My blood is racing as I exhale, while Snape looks as calm as I've ever seen him, if a touch dark in the eyes. 

"Are you quite finished?" he asks. Without waiting for me to respond, he flies back into the bedroom and shrinks into his lamp.

The look Hermione is giving me makes it clear what a bastard I am.

"Just because Snape isn't human anymore, I don't think it means he can't remember what its like," she says.

"I know," I sigh. "Damn it. Guess I'm on my own now."

"Not exactly. You have me."

Cloak flutters by so casually, I am forced to roll my eyes. "And _you_ , you rag." I turn to Hermione. "Do you think he could ever forgive me? Draco, I mean."

She's looking over my shoulder again. This time, I turn. The only thing I see is a balcony lit up on the distant end of the palace. Some sheer curtains flutter from an archway, pearl-white against the dark sky, and then a tall, slender silhouette emerges to lean against the balcony railing. My mouth goes dry.

"Only one way to find out," Hermione says.

***

"The strangest part is that I was actually willing to give this prince a chance. I know, I know...I'm not normally so cooperative, but..."

As Cloak flies me up to the prince's balcony that night, I stop short, hearing him in the middle of a conversation. Feeling intrusive, I turn to depart, until— 

"It's just that he looks so familiar...you don't suppose they could be cousins? No...I'm probably just tired."

When I ease Cloak higher, I find Draco leaning against the railing running his finger over the breast feathers of a magnificent eagle owl. I hop over and leave Cloak to flutter from a distance. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt."

My tone matters little, as Draco springs back, pulling his silk robe tighter around his pajamas, while the eagle owl launches its wings out and hisses at me.

"How did you get up here?" he demands.

"I saw your light on and chanced it."

"That doesn't explain _how_."

"Please," I ask, stepping forward. "May I?"

But his hand shoots out.

"No, you may not!"

It strikes me, as Draco looks at me with near disgust, that no amount of etiquette training or djin magic can make me something I'm not. Charming. _Appropriate_ for Draco. Hell, maybe Snape is right and my hair is the deterrent. It doesn't seem to matter, as Draco clearly wants nothing to do with me.

"All right," I tell him. "Goodbye."

And I hop off the balcony.

"Prince Harold!" he cries. 

My heart leaps, and Cloak pops me back up.

"Draco? Oh—sorry." We're nose to nose. He must have run after me. "Did we scare you?"

"You have a flying carpet?" 

Draco ignores me in favor of Cloak, and he's not shy, reaching for the fine, watery fabric. I fly onto the balcony so he can get a better handful. Cloak is thankfully indulgent.

"Not a carpet," I say. "Those are old news. This is a cloak. Cloak, would you mind?"

He stands up and shakes Draco's hand vigorously. I don't think I've ever seen someone so taken aback in all my life, although perhaps the prince is simply not accustom to hand-shaking. 

"And that's not all," I add, summoning Cloak to enclose himself around me.

Draco practically goggles as I disappear from view, and immediately he reaches for Cloak's fabric again, this time touching my invisible chest with care. "I imagine I should be thanking you for making yourself known on my balcony, rather than sneaking."

"Ha," I say nervously. "I'd never…"

His shock is melting into something neutral, even warm, if I'm not too optimistic to say so, by the time he slinks back to lean on his railing. Pensive, he pushes his fringe back a couple times before saying, "Come out from there, Prince Harold."

Only the eagle owl glares as I approach. 

"I didn't mean to be forward, but I had to speak to you before you made any further plans with Zabini."

"Oh, don't worry. He was as charming as you were."

"So, a real wanker?"

He laughs quietly, looking at the city, not me.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior," I say. "It was wrong of me to presume any marriage between us, to presume _anything_ between us, before I had even spoken to you privately. Perhaps I got ahead of myself. But everything I said about admiring you was true. You're sort of a dream to me, Prince Draco."

"How can you think so highly of me? You don't even know me."

"Sometimes you feel like you know someone as soon as you see them. Like they're sharing a secret with you through their very eyes."

At last, he looks over his shoulder, and while his normally well-coiffed hair is falling over half his face, through it I see a certain amount of bridled curiosity. He bites his lip, brushing his hair slowly away, and by God, if those small, elegant gestures alone don't make me want to kiss him. Before I let impulse take me, I ask, "Would you like a ride?"

"Really?"

"Sure. Take my hand." Suddenly, Cloak is there, putting his uppermost corner in my grasp. "Not you, smart arse."

Draco laughs openly this time, and as he does I take notice of a shadow of stubble on his throat, something that would not normally excite me, but seeing pristine Prince Draco in his unkempt state, nightwear and all, my palms begin to sweat. I swipe off my hand before reaching for his. He takes it. And the way he looks at me now, in utter trust and wonderment, inspires my last wish: I want only the means to show him the world he so desperately longs to see. 

"Lean back," I say.

"But I'll…"

"Trust me."

Perhaps it's the warm, fragrant air or the veil of intrigue that night creates, but Draco decides to do just that. His eyes fall closed. His body falls backwards. There's a whoosh and a shout of joy as Cloak flings him into the sky, his hand still clasped within mine. 

"He's as strong as he is beautiful!" Draco shouts. He laughs deeply, his hair going every direction at once, pure joy overcoming him, and while I didn't think this was possible, he looks right now more beautiful than ever. He peers down at me, red-cheeked. "Well, aren't you coming?"

"If you want me to."

He pulls expectantly. It's all the answer I need.

Cloak lifts us into the sky, and the desert, that endless white sea, rushes onto us. We exclaim as we inhale thick mist, which encapsulates us completely. We break free to find ourselves flying with a pack of what I first think are horses; as Cloak drops lower, as if he can sense our interest, I gasp at the sight of the animals' ghostly forms, with glistening ribs with no insides, faces so hazy to my eyes, I wonder if they wear masks.

"What are those?" I ask.

"Young thestrals," Draco says, leaning over my lap to palm a baby's eager nose. "They haven't disappeared yet. They're pure."

Cloak jets us along a reedy river, wetlands with blue glowing insects, a wide-thicket of fertile plains housing herbs and succulents, and when I begin to feel warmth under my legs, like the most pleasant bath water, I realize Cloak himself is glowing to show us the pleasures beneath us. I give him a pat. He continues to surprise.

It's not until we slow to tread over a stream, watching Hograbah's midnight lanterns twinkle, that Draco notices we are still holding hands and so tightly that my fingers have gone cold and numb. He licks his lips. Carefully, he eases his hand away.

"So, I've been wondering..." I say after a spell. "Why is it that you're stuck here in a palace, entertaining suitors endlessly, when you could just as easily be venturing out as a suitor yourself?"

He leans forward, dragging his fingers over the water's surface. "Family lines are important to my father...and when I made it clear I would only accept being wed to a man, he made it clear that that could only be so if I could still provide him with heirs. Naturally, if I am the one to bear children, I'm to be watched as closely as a…"

When he rolls his eyes, I provide, "A princess?"

"Mm, yes."

"And you don't mind? Bearing your children…?"

"Well, I chose it," he says, a bit tight. He seems to realize I meant no harm, laying back onto Cloak with a sigh, his arms behind his head. "It's not so annoying to be compared to princess. I've met some impressive ones in my day. Your sister seems like a battle axe, for instance…" He smirks at my eager nodding. "But to be paraded around like chattel…watched like something fragile...it's exhausting. And humiliating, if I'm honest. I mean, if we're caught like _this_ , they'll have your head on a stake by breakfast."

"Erm…"

He waves a flippant hand. "Also, I amuse myself with lies. Not to worry, Harold."

" _Harold_ now, is it?"

"You don't mind, do you?"

Perhaps I'm hopeful, but with his tone, the way he's sprawled out next to me, I'm reminded of the flirtations of tipsy Draco some weeks ago. My heart picks up pace as I dare to lean close, one elbow on the fabric, to watch him close his eyes and breathe in the silent night.

"You are beautiful in all the ways one can mean the word," I whisper.

He grins broadly, eyes still closed. "Thank you."

I am bold, stroking a finger over his protruding knuckles. "And strong enough to make your desires clear to your father. Not to mention to every _stuffed-shirt_ who prances through your palace…"

He hasn't moved his hand. His fingers begin to dance with mine, treading softly in between.

"It's just…" I tell him, my breath making the hair on his forehead flutter. "I mean to say...that I don't think of you that way. Like a princess. That's not what I saw when I first met you."

Draco opens his eyes. I count myself lucky he doesn't recoil seeing how close I've come. My hair could brush his face if I just... 

"You know, this is the farthest from my bed I've ever been," he says.

It is a task not to think of his bed. My cock is already swelling close to where our hands touch, and I dare not push this further.

Suddenly, Draco laughs. "For a handsome prince, your hair is ridiculous." He reaches up to brush it out of my face. I scarcely have time to enjoy his fingertips on my skin before he leans back. "Where did you get that scar?"

Oh. Shit, I guess it's time for this. 

A nervous grin overcomes me. "A scuffle with a ram when I was a boy?" 

The spark in his eye changes. Ever so slowly, he goes from startled to understanding, breathing, "Harry?"

I begin rubbing the back of my neck. "Um, yeah."

He sits up so fast, we knock heads. He seems unphased, growling, "I _knew_ it."

"Ow! Took you long enough."

" _Took_ me—?"

He slaps me again, and, _shit_ , for someone so anaemic-looking Draco hits like a pack of stampeding camels. Oh, and now I've fallen into the ruddy stream. 

"Son of a bitch!" I cry, grasping for leverage in the water.

" _Sorry_ ," Draco says, sounding complete _not_. "I may have muttered a Force Spell at the same time. Not that it matters, since you _lied_ to me."

"Yeah, because that's a good reason to beat and drown me. Cloak, help me up, for God's sake."

"Oh, cry more, _Harold_."

I flick the hair out of my face once on the cloak, my jaw set, breathing heavily probably more from my outrage than the fall.

"Do you hear yourself, you spoiled brat?" I say.

"How _dare_ you?" 

His hand rears back again.

I grab his wrist hard, pulling him close as he fights. "Do _not_ do that again!" When his breathing slows, I release him, though there is still hot air between us. "Yes, I lied, and I'm not sorry about it. I had to see you again, Draco. I _had_ to."

"What is going on? Why were you masquerading as a servant at the party?" He runs both hands through his hair, understandably frazzled, saying, "And you're supposed to be dead! I thought—" He puts his hand over his mouth. This is the first time I realize he may be more hurt than angry.

So I tell him. The prudent bits: from Riddle luring me out of prison to him faking my execution when I failed to give him the treasure he desired. _Treasure_ , mind you. I'm not about to go ruining this by telling Draco I'm only a prince because of a hook-nosed bat-genie.

And the me-dressing-up-like-a-servant bit?

"—so, I just like to go around in common clothing sometimes," I assure him. "That way, I know who likes me for me, and not because I'm a prince."

Draco is quiet, but breaks his thought long enough to advise me to cast Drying Charm before I become ill.

"Oh, right. Er…" I close my eyes, trying to remember that spell Hermione performed when we crawled out of the palace moat, something like, " _Ven-it-tus_."

My robes burst into flame. 

"Oh, balls _—"_ Draco is scrambling for an object in his pajamas. Cloak and I flail in unison, but before I can dive into the water anew, Draco points his wand. " _Extinguo_!" 

"Shit, shit, shit," I moan.

I pat Cloak. He's fine. I'm fine. And Draco is cocking his head at me like one might a starving baby thestral.

"Dear God, Harry."

He hugs me.

My arms spring up in happy surprise to embrace him. "I'm okay. And did you say, _oh balls_?"

"I can't believe Riddle used you like that," he whispers. His hand combs roughly through my hair. He brings our heads close, so close his breath warms my nose, his eyes searching mine as if he's been doing it every day for years. "Harry, you should have told me sooner. And why didn't you have Thomas arrested?"

"I didn't want to make any more trouble. I just wanted to be with you." I say some more stuff, probably. I don't know. His hand feels so good in my hair. "Draco…" I want to feel that breath on my mouth, but when I get my chance, he's already holding me at arm's length and rampaging on.

"That _Riddle_! Even his name sounds tricky. I never liked him, but this? Why would he break the law just to get at some treasure? He is well taken care of."

"I don't know," I mumble.

"I'm going to talk to my father about him straight away."

"Draco, don't, it's—"

"Please," he says, clutching my shoulders. "Don't lie to me again...even if you mean well. I get a lot of that from suitors, you know."

An arrow of guilt shoots through my heart, but I rub my hands over his sides, nodding, having no other choice. Except...

I sigh. "I should tell you something."

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

"Please, shut up and kiss me."

No reason to argue with that. 

He waits for me to approach him. So proud, this one. I reach slowly around the back of his head to graze the close-cut hair at his nape, stroking until he tilts his head with enjoyment, and when I've leaned so close that the scent of poppy on his skin dizzies me, at long last—I do. I kiss my prince.

He must know how he enchants me. I ease him onto his back, feeling him smile against my lips the whole time. He's scratching up my chest and into my hair gently and precisely, and scratching back down to run circles on my hips with two fingers that test the lines of propriety just beneath the hem of my shirt. My cock strains between us, longing for him, but I keep upright, my knees firmly on either side of his hips, no matter how tempted I am to surge down upon him.

I'm beginning to feel guilty for doing this on Cloak's back, though I notice he has been politely lost in thought for a long time. 

"We should—" I laugh, smoothing down Draco's cowlick. "I should get you back before this goes somewhere it shouldn't."

"And where would that be?" he asks huskily, glancing down at my bulge.

"Don't you tempt me."

We keep a noble distance as Cloak flies us home, but of course the virgin _does_ tempt. I try to be respectable. I try to walk him back to his curtain and send him off with a chaste kiss, but he very nearly forces my arms around him, lifting onto his bare toes so my hands fall to the swell of his arse, which is both firmer and softer than I ever fantasized, and I've done a lot of that.

"Harry," he says into my mouth. He tastes of the honey blossoms from my fantasies, so purely that I wonder if it is not a perfume but a scent natural unto him. Purely Draco. I realize I'm chanting his name when he pulls back with his hands on my cheeks, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles. "I'm right here," he says, the light from his bedroom making a gold halo around his head.

"You do love me," I say.

"Yes. And you saw me in a mirror?"

"Not exactly the way I presented it," I say into his neck. I kiss just there and then breathe him in again. "Mm, God. I'll tell you later."

I lose myself. I'm in his bed chamber. When did I lay him down? When did he open his legs to me, his back arching, his thighs pulling back to let those legs wrap around my waist? I'm rocking, and when my cock swells fully against him for the first time, Draco moans with abandon, pulling back from our kiss and giving me a round-eyed stare.

"Harry," he whispers. "It's _not_ stuffing, is it? Harry, you're…"

I'm flattered. I would tell him, but there's not a breath left in my body, so I do the only thing I can, pulling him close and giving him all that remains.

"Can I touch you?" I ask. But I'm already fumbling with the ties of his robes. "I want you. I want…"

I very nearly laugh at myself, for no pink curtain boy has taken my control in this way. As many bedposts as I've been roped to, my cock laved by two tongues at once, soft boys that pull their flesh apart for me, working men who let me hold them down like animals, it is Draco who sparks my fires deep. I want him so badly I can't express it in words. I guide his hand into my pants, wrapping his fingers around my cock to _show_ him. 

"Oh my God," he marvels again. "It's so...you're so…"

I want him every way. Dripping with candle wax and rose petals. With his legs splayed, me smelling the sweetest scents between his thighs, tasting the musk of his flesh. I want him moaning, opening his mouth for my fingers, my cock, starved for it, marveling at the feeling of it pressing him open. God, as many deviances as I've enjoyed, it is Draco, this naive prince, who makes me shake apart, and I can't wait another moment to have him.

He pushes me up by the shoulders. "We should stop."

"What?" It takes a moment for my vision to clear. For me to see that he's serious. "Yeah. Stopping...is what I was going to suggest…"

I may be a shit, but I cannot hide my frustration as I spring out of bed, pulling up my trousers awkwardly.

He puts his hand on my back. "You're angry?"

"No, Draco, I'm thrilled."

"I'm sorry to have led you on, but what part of _needing to save myself for marriage_ don't you get?"

I scoff, walking towards the balcony, muttering, "What part of _if you bring me to your bed, I'm going to want to fuck you raw_ don't you get?"

He grabs me from behind, shoving me against the wall with strength I did not expect. "Look," he says, and for the first time his arousal is apparent to me, sweat-slicked hairline, dilated eyes, half erection, and all. "I can't do this now. But I want to. With you."

"When we're married," I bark. 

"Yes."

"Fine!" I don't know why I'm angry anymore. He leans into me, and I stroke his cheek. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

When I leave, Cloak is waiting loyalty on the other side of the balcony. I hop on.

"Draco." I reach out a hand. "I'll take you anywhere in the world you want to go. We don't even have to get married, if you don't want. I just…I want to give you…"

He leans towards me with his elbows on the balcony, a vision with the moon behind him. "I feel the same. But I have to get married."

"Then, can I see you tomorrow?"

"I'll hunt you down if you don't call on me."

"I don't know. I might like that." My words trail off, as he leans close to me. "I mean...you, hunting me…sounds a little bit…"

"Goodnight," he whispers.

"It _was_ a good night, wasn't—?"

His lips are on mine. Thank goodness. I was blabbering. The kiss is short and deep, and when he is finished, he pushes me away and I go floating out into the sky with a lasting image of him smiling to himself and disappearing past the silken curtains.

I fall back with my hands behind my head, exclaiming, "Cloak! You are my savior. I'll never call you a rag again. Tonight was perfect."

With the moon shining warmly upon me, I close my eyes with visions of warm plains, endless oceans, and majestic mountains in my head. Where should I take Draco first?

"I suppose it depends on you," I say, patting Cloak. "I mean, are you comfortable flying in conditions like—"

My question is cut short by the darkness that overcomes me, an overwhelming urge to avoid inhaling, as though someone is holding a poisoned cloth over my face. I kick, reaching for anything to grab or punch, but there is no one there. 

My blood goes cold when I hear an all too familiar voice: "Do shut up, Gryffindor."


	6. CHAPTER SIX

"He's waking up! Give the man some space."

"Yeah, George, stop breathing all over him. I know he's good-looking, but he deserves as much respect as the next fellow."

"Piss off, Fred. Why don't you get back to stuffing your turkey?"

"Now you're coming on to _me_ , are you?"

"Boys! Back to your chores. Prince Harry, dear, can you hear me?"

"Mum, I told you. He's not really a prince, just—"

"Shush, Ron!"

Pained (and, frankly, overwhelmed with all the chatter), I open my eyes and give a start, finding myself laying flat on a dirt floor with a half dozen freckled redheads blinking at me.

"Drink this, love," says a plump middle-aged woman. After a second, I recognize her as the palace cook, Mrs. Weasley. Am I in the kitchen? "There you are. You gave us all a fright."

The tea she's holding to my mouth is sweet, minty, and strangely revitalizing. Ron helps me sit up, and when the room starts spinning, I immediately let my head fall into my free hand.

"Harry," Ron says, crouching. "Do you have any idea why Hermione found you sleeping on the edge of the fish pond?"

"Fish pond?" I grumble. "Dunno. Must be why my shorts feel damp, though…"

"No," says a lanky boy, stuffing a turkey across the room. "I think that was George again."

"You, back to your prepping," snaps Mrs. Weasley. "Ginny, go fetch Harry a plate, please."

A girl with red, swinging hair places aside what she's sewing and scuttles off. I'm too tired to tell her I'm not hungry, but by the time she reappears with a shy smile and a pile of meat, yogurt, and bread, I'm salivating and nodding my thanks.

"Sorry...a fish pond?" I ask Ron a few moments later, wiping my mouth.

"Yeah, she levitated you here in a fright. Told me not to bring you to the infirmary and that she'd be right back, but then…" He shrugs. "I haven't seen her since. It's been an hour. I'm starting to worry." 

"Mm, I shoul' go—" I swallow, hobbling to my feet. "Should go find her."

Mrs. Weasley looks at me sternly, still holding the tea cup. "Perhaps you should rest, dear. You're quite pale."

"I'm fine, ma'am, thank you."

"At least take a cloak, you'll catch a chill. Fred, give him yours."

"Always old Fred making the sacrifices." Fred wipes his stuffing-covered hands on a towel and tosses me a wool cloak from a rack on the...

Cloak. Hold on, where's Cloak?

"Ron," I exclaim. "Did Hermione come in with a flying Invisibility Cloak?"

He trades a glance with his mother. "Er, no. Think I would have remembered to mention that."

"Shit." And now I'm remembering Tom Riddle's voice in my ear. "Shit, shit shit!"

"Harry?" Ron shouts, but I'm already halfway out the door. I hear a rushed explanation to Mrs. Weasley, and then he's pounding the marble behind me. "Oi, wait!"  
We make for the wing that houses the grander male servants (butlers, advisors, doctors, and the like), and as luck would have it I spot Riddle just as he exits an elaborate looking doorway.

"Back here," I say, pulling Ron behind a corner. 

When I peek, Riddle has turned around to shout into his chambers.

"Well, keep trying! If it slips out again, toss it into the cauldron to show it a lesson. If the damn thing escapes, it'll harass us to no end."

He strides past with royal blue robes flapping, muttering under his breath, and I'm sure I hear the word _cloak_ grumbled at least once. We creep towards the door, but naturally the damn thing is locked. 

"You know a charm for this?" I ask Ron.

"You want me to open the advisor's chambers? Are you mad? I could get my hand chopped off for less."

"Then I'll take the fall." Ron looks pained, so I add, "Look, there's no time to explain, but Riddle's up to no good. Hermione could even be in danger, so just open this door for me and then head up to my chambers to look for her. Got it?"

Ron makes a lengthy assortment of faces, but seems to take the bit about Hermione to heart. The wand he whips out is splintery compared to most I've seen, and while it takes him several failed spells, at last the mechanism in the door clicks.  
"Right," I tell him. "Meet me outside the king's quarters after this."

Riddle's chambers feel more dungeon-like than any I've encountered in the palace, not airy and cushioned but dark, descending into fumes that leave a putrid stink in my mouth. I tread down a twisting staircase and find the main room silent, except for a boiling pot in the grate. At the far end, there's a door, which I imagine leads to a bedchamber, standing ajar. Besides that, the place is filled halfway to the ceiling with clutter: old crates, empty vials, books, caged birds and rodents, and even a few Muggle weapons on dusty shelves. 

I grab a sabor leaning against the wall and creep deeper into the long, narrow space. When my foot nearly treads on what I think is the body of a snake, I stumble back, barely containing a shout. It turns out to be an old shed skin.

I let out a shuddering sigh.

A trunk in the corner begins to shake violently. I race towards it, whispering, "Cloak?"

There's a lock on the trunk as big as my fist. Damn, I shouldn't have sent Ron off so soon. I wonder if I can lug the whole thing out before Riddle's confidant returns. No, it's too heavy. I've got to do what I have the least confidence to do. I close my eyes, putting my hand on my heart, just like Snape showed me, and I _feel_. He mentioned something about power...harnessing power. And there was warmth and some tingling. It felt good. What else feels good? Draco. I think of him, my lips curling up, and there it is, a subtle hum in the center of my chest.

" _Unlock_ ," I say.

I tug the lock, but it remains intact.

"Cloak, I don't know what to—"

A snake bursts out of the trunk.

In my shock, the sabor goes flying, along with my dignity as I scream and scurry back on my hands and feet and away from the snake's chomping jaws. I had thought this damn thing dead!

It has ripped the whole trunk apart, having burst through the slats—and I gather, judging by the hefty form halfway down its throat, it was behind the trunk digesting dinner while I tried to work out the lock—and now it's lunging for me, thumping into crates, clattering over jars, and now I've nearly met the wall and will have nowhere to go.

I roll onto my knees, sure I must outrun it if I have a fighting chance, and then Cloak is launching into the air, shaking slivers of wood off himself. He cuts down, scoops me up, and shoots off again just as the snake nips at my boot.

"Good lad," I shout, not bothering to look back. 

We head up, up towards the main palace and straight towards the king's chambers. It's long past bedtime, so there's got to be time yet to warn him about Riddle's murderous nature.

I'm so intent on my destination that I fly right past the royal drawing room without noticing the people inside. Thankfully Cloak is so quick they don't notice our movement. I backtrack, and find the inhabitants have the air of people discussing the weather, which wouldn't be a big deal except it's about two in the morning and the current speaker is saying, "I drowned his lover in a fish pond, you know. Surely it was a painless demise...though perhaps not."

A woman titters. "Oh, good! There's no death like a painless one. Draco, do you remember your cat, who we told you died happily in front of the fire one night? I do hope he was happy, but who knows? The maid found him next to the poisonous flowers on my windowsill." She laughs again, damping out the sound of a young man struggling.

"I just saw Harry not an hour ago, you lying bastard!"

I exhale to calm myself, leaning around the corner to decipher the scene. Draco is bound by magic to a long backless sofa, all fours pinned to opposing corners. He is sweating, his silk shirt riding up his chest, as if he's' been struggling for some time, while his parents sit placidly on a nearby ottoman. Behind them, Tom Riddle is dragging a lazy finger along the back of Queen Narcissa's neck.

"Yes, you did see him," he tells Draco calmly. "And then, when he was leaving your bed chamber, I killed him. My queen, did you know your little whore of a son lets _men_ into his bed chamber at night?"

She gasps, "Draco!" and then falls into laughter again. Despite her apparent joy, her eyes are as dull as lead and her hands placed primly in her lap. It's unsettling, to say the least.

"You've tried to convince me he was dead before," Draco barks. "Why should I believe you now?"

"Draco," King Lucius says reassuringly, about as dead-eyed as his wife. "Thomas has never steered us wrong. If he says Prince Harold died happily in a pond, I'm sure he's presenting it with accuracy. And it was probably for the best, given that you seem to be a whore now."

"Oh, daddy." Riddle makes a despairing face. "Such harsh words for your son. Draco, believe me or don't believe me. It matters not. Now, why don't you—?"

"No," Draco shouts, turning his head away as Riddle comes closer. I see now that he has a red orb of light flickering on the tip of his wand, giving me the impression that if Draco stares into it, he will become as thoughtless as his parents.

"Please don't make me get the _potions_ ," Riddle moans. "They taste of tar, sweet boy. And I put whole monkeys into them."

"Disgusting," the queen remarks. She smiles and adds, "Just like Draco!"

"Oh, don't be so judgmental, my queen. I seem to remember spying on you one night with the boy who grooms the horses. Over the back of a saddle rack, was it?"

Lucius clicks his tongue. "Oh, Narcissa. You could do better."

"You mean you don't mind, Lucius?" asks Riddle, flashing an eerie smile. He forgets about Draco and approaches the king, stroking his own chin, his eyes sparkling with a repugnant sort of joy at the entertainment he's created.

"I really _don't_ mind. I do the same with Persephone."

Riddle puts a hand to his chest. "The maiden who picks the flowers?"

"She's not a maiden anymore!" says Lucius.

The three of them explode with laughter, the queen adding, "I'd thought for sure you were having an affair with the cook's daughter."

"The cook's daughter!" Riddle cries. "I'd forgot about her. What would you do with her, Lucius? I'd like to hold her down by that naughty red hair." As he says this, he knots a hand into the queen's hair, his eyes on the smiling king the whole while. "Do you think she'd like it rough?"

Draco begins to rock the sofa so hard, I fear he will sprain his limbs in their sockets. "Get away from her! They've shown you nothing but kindness since you got here, Thomas, and this is how you repay them? You make me sick."

"Look at my wand, boy," Riddle says into Narcissa's ear. "If you don't, I'll fuck your mother right in front of you. Bent over...just like the saddle boy did…"

Draco begins to tremble helplessly. I want to burst in, but without magic like Riddle's, or a sword, or friends to back me up, I fear I'm about as useful as a boy bound to a sofa.

Then—salvation. Ron and Hermione are running up the stairs from the same direction Cloak and I came. They seem to be in argument, and if they come any closer, they will give up our position.

"Can you get their attention?" I ask Cloak, who makes an _okay_ gesture with his upper-right corner and struts past the doorway once Riddle's back is turned. I roll my eyes. "Like I couldn't have done that." 

Too late for nitpicking. He's reached Ron and Hermione and is pointing them in my direction. I put my finger to my mouth as they creep forward. Hermione's eyes go wide. She points to Riddle in near-hysterics and mouths something I can't understand. I hold up my hands to indicate that, so Ron joins in, moving his hand back and forth in the air, as if he's rubbing something vigorously.

They caught Riddle wanking?

At that moment, Riddle says something about heat stroke and throws his over-robes onto the king's head. I see it now. Snape's lamp! It's in his back pocket.

Now he's dragging his hands down Draco's splayed thighs as he kneels in front of him, saying, "Of course, it wouldn't be prudent to fuck my own mother-in-law. There would be such tension during the holidays."

Oh, how my blood starts to boil. I long to wrench Riddle's heart out through his arse.

I look at Hermione, pleading. She's already got Ron's wand and is flicking it at Riddle, mouthing something, which makes the lamp wiggle a bit in Riddle's pocket. He doesn't seem to notice, continuing to make vile insinuations, his cheek lying on the inside of Draco's thigh.

"For the last time," Draco says, clenching his eyes shut. "I'm not marrying you. I'm marrying... _stop, stop_!"

"Oh, you don't make it easy for a man to move up the chain of command…"

I can't take this. The lamp is making too little headway and this monster is practically assaulting Draco in front of me. I nod to Cloak, and he drapes himself around my shoulders, despite Hermione mouthing, "No!" at us desperately. Soon, the only evidence of my presence are footprints, which appear magically in the drawing room's plush rug. 

Surely, I think, if I can get close enough to tackle Riddle, who is far slighter than I am, I can knock the wand out of his hand and grab the lamp.

There's a loud hiss. 

I jump, startled by Riddle's snake, who seems to have slithered up and smelled me regardless of my state of visibility. It circles my feet, tongue flicking, and as Riddle turns toward the commotion, he looks to the floor. His lips draw back, baring a wide, sinister smile.

"Ah, Nagini," he says casually. " _Sometimes_ you are useful." He thrusts his wand. I jerk back, thudding against the opposite wall with Cloak pinned behind me. Riddle saunters forward and yanks the fabric off my face. "You were right, Draco. Your prince lives."

"This is the boy who deflowered you?" Narcissa wonders. "Good taste, despite the hair."

"And lack of body," says Lucius.

"Don't hurt him," I growl, looking at Draco, who seems both relieved and frightened to see me here. "Do what you want with me, but leave him alone."

"Noble, but not in the cards." Riddle saunters in front of me, twirling his wand, stopping to bite the base as he pretends to think. "Here's the situation I'm in, Potter. You see, I can't kill you with my own hands or by my own command on this soil. I've come to terms with that. Something to do with an ancient curse by the Gryffindor family to all potential threats, and so on and so forth—I don't want to get into it right now. And, as you may be able to tell, even when I try to kill you passively, it still doesn't work. Now, I suppose I could take you outside the _bounds_ of the ancient Gryffindor kingdom…"

"No, Thomas!" Draco cries. "I'll marry you, I swear!"

Riddle chuckles through his nose, patting Draco on the head. "Oh, _now_ you comply." He turns back to me, saying with resignation, "It's just that the ancient lands of Gryffindor are so vast, it would be a huge ordeal. So. Here's a compromise: I'm going to banish you to a faraway land. And you're going to stay away from this palace and all of Hograbah for good."

Instantly, I meet eyes with Draco. "But…"

"If you don't, I'll be _stressed_ ," Riddle says, his hand feathering through Draco's hair, "and I won't be able to take very good care of the prince, here."

"Don't you fucking touch him!" 

"I'm trying to be nice, boy, but you still don't understand." He leans forward, speaking to me concisely, like one might a child. "I am going to be king. It's my birthright to be king. So that's what I will be. Unfortunately for you, Harry Potter, your heritage poses a threat to that, so you force me to waste my first wish."

He takes out the lamp.

Smokily, groggily Snape emerges, looking more unkempt than usual. I'm the first one he sees, and before I can speak he's floating towards me with a satisfied scowl and his arms folded.

"Thought of that wish, did you?"

"No, I did," Riddle says lightly.

Snape whirls around, eyeing his lamp in the hands of a stranger, saying accusingly, "And you are…?"

"Come now, djin. I went through years of hard work to find you, so I hope you're more clever than this. I'm your new master."

"Snape," I interject. "My wish! I want you to imprison this—"

Snape holds up a hand. I go silent, not from magic but shock.

"I'm afraid that's not how it works, Potter. I now belong to whoever this is."

"But I didn't finish. My three wishes. I only made _one_."

"You made two. The goat herder consented to the second one, asking me to save you from drowning in a pond. She said you wouldn't mind." He glances up, seeming to sense Hermione through the drawing room wall but saying nothing of it. He regards the man holding his lamp with repugnance. "Not that it matters now."

Draco, who has been silent for so long, asks, "Harry, what's going on?"

Riddle throws his head back joyfully. "He didn't tell you? This should be entertaining!" He gestures between us, indicating I should spill my guts immediately. "No? Oh, I get to do it? Prince Draco, your lover is scum off the street. Lower, even, than a common prostitute—and he should know. He's had plenty of experience with those. He is not a true prince, regardless of his genetics, for he has nothing to offer you, not even a house to keep you warm."

Draco looks between us, confused, while I say nothing. It's true. What is there to say? I blink back tears of embarrassment and Riddle carries on with the tone of someone conversing over the dinner table.

"I know I should have told you sooner, but you were such a basket-case, Prince Draco, I didn't think it was worth the effort. Plus, I didn't care. Now onto things I do care about." Riddle sweeps a hand toward Snape. "Genie, this may seem trivial, but I need you to banish this boy farther than he could ever hope to return."

I could swear I hear Hermione gasp.

Me, I'm shaking my head, pleading with my eyes. 

"Snape," I say. "You can't! I'll free you right now. Right _now_ , I swear."

Snape has never given me a look like he does now. His normally cold eyes are hot with fury, and beneath it, there burns a steady ember of regret...whether for my predicament or his lost freedom, I don't know.

"Snape...please…"

The last thing I see is Draco arching off the sofa towards me, screaming, trying desperately to free himself, while Riddle stands above him and continues to stroke a hand through that soft blond hair. 

Then my world is white.


	7. CHAPTER SEVEN

"Ah, Harry. You finally made it."

It's cold. It's cold and white, storming fat flakes of snow as far as my eyes can see, and Cloak is nowhere.

I shiver violently, crossing my arms tight. "Hello?"

"Hello!"

Also, someone without a body is talking to me. I must be dead. This is not what I expected from heaven. Though, there's that other place, too, but I have to admit I didn't expect to end up there.

I squint through the blizzard and shout, " _Hello? Who's there?_ "

"It's impolite to shout in someone's ear."

"Oh, God!"

Two blue eyes have appeared from nowhere—and ears, after that, as chilly pink as any human flesh, and slowly a wrinkly face materialises, home to a crooked nose with a set of gold spectacles on the tip, a long white beard, and a gentle smile.

The person says, "People always seem to call me that, but I've never heard of this God. Is he pleasant, at least?"

"I, um…"

He seems unaffected by the storm, despite wearing only a cotton nightgown. Even his bony feet are bare, his toes curling happily in the snow. I shiver just looking at them.

"I'm terribly sorry," he tells me.

The snow drops abruptly out of the sky. The endless white plains melt away, straight into grass that appears beneath it, with flowers bursting from the earth—so many types and colors that I've never seen in my life, as wondrous to me as the jewels in the lion's cavern—and sunshine. Such pleasant warmth! I'm not in Hell. I don't think...

The old man fans himself with his beard. "I wore my favorite wool socks all morning. Minerva knitted them, and they _are_ nice, but so very hot."

Realizing I'm still opening my mouth like a fish, I say, "Sorry. Should we...turn the snow back on?"

"No, no, dear boy. You seem to hail from a warmer climate. I'm the host. I'll improvise." He flings off his nightgown, and before I can look politely away, I find he's wearing a white shirt and shorts with a rainbow pattern beneath. "She knitted these, too," he adds, turning around and walking away. "Tea?"

As I follow, a house pops out of the ground in front of us. Next to it, a vegetable garden. Some trees shoot up, one nearly impaling me between the legs, and two or three cats wander out of the shrubs and start making a fuss.

"No fish today," the old man tells them. "I forgot to fill up the lake."

I stop at a tall plant with shiny leaves and a dozen small, strange pods. "What's this?" I ask, unabashedly reaching out.

"Corn. Delicious in mango salsa."

I have literally no idea what he just said.

The old man sits at a table under the awning of the house. Before him, a teatray with delicate white pots and cups appears.

"This is beautiful," I say, bending to examine the blue flower pattern on one cup. I dare not touch. It looks rare and valuable to my eye.

"My mother's bone china. I like it, too. Sit, sit, Harry, I'm sure you're tired." He crosses one leg over the other, summons the pot to serve us, and while it goes to work filling my nose with grass-flower steam, he stares and smiles at me.

"Sir," I venture. "Where am I?"

"I believe what Tom said was: you're farther away from Hograbah than you could ever hope to return."

"And where's that?"

"Oh...here or there, relative to where you were."

Right, I'm starting to think he and I don't speak the same language. 

"Look," I say firmly. "I don't mean to be rude, but do you know the way _back_ to Hograbah? My friends and the royal family are all in danger right now."

"They'll be fine, Harry. Ready for you when you return. As it stands, I think we have some things to discuss before then."

The sugar spoon is leaning towards me inquisitively. Uncomfortable, I hold up two fingers and watch it delve into its pot and lump to sugars into a cup.

Entranced, I ask the old man, "Like what?"

"Like the fact that you're having trouble with magic. You're a strong lad, but honestly I don't think you have a chance beating Tom Riddle without confidence in that."

"Confidence? It's not that. I just don't know how! My aunt and uncle couldn't afford to send _Dudley_ to magic school, much less me. Plus, I get by without it."

"Ah, yes—by lying and stealing," he says pleasantly.

"Oy, _are_ you God or aren't you? No need to pass judgement."

"I'm simply pointing out that those things don't tend to lead to happiness and its a shame that a promising lad like you has had to resort to them. Though, perhaps this is taking an ethical turn. I do hate to delve into serious subject matter over such lovely biscuits."

"What biscuits?" I snap.

"Good heavens, what biscuits indeed. Reginald!"

He's ignoring my outburst, thankfully, but I can't find it in me to be grateful. I'm flustered! I'm sitting at a strange wooden house in front of an endless, flower-flecked field, apparently normally with a lake but today without, and then there's this know-it-all man talking nonsense at me. Personal nonsense. And now _Cloak_ is strutting out of the front door, wearing an apron (how a cloak wears an apron, I certainly don't know) and carrying a plate of pink sugary biscuits and looking right proud of it. He waves one corner enthusiastically at me.

"Yeah, hello, Cloak. You know this man?"

"Reginald is his name," the old man reminds me. "And Albus Dumbledore is mine, and you, Harry, look like you could use a biscuit and tea." 

Instantly, my hands are filled with both, and I have to admit it's good. So bloody good. I slump down, completely relaxed, as Cloak (no, _Reginald_ ) settles at the table next to this Dumbledore character.

I tell them, "I'd wish for powerful magic, if I could, but I only have one wish left and promised to free Snape with it. Not to mention the whole _Riddle stole the lamp_ thing…"

"I imagine his impending freedom is part of the reason Severus sent you here."

"Severus?"

"Severus Snape, the djin."

"Okaaay." More tea. Infinitely more tea. "And you think he was trying to help me?"

"He is a harsh but decent man...when he _was_ a man. I imagine Tom's wish was vague enough that Severus chose to interpret it in a way more useful to you than to Tom." Dumbledore combs his beard in thought. " _Further away than you could hope to return_ … My guess is you're in a state of magical sleep somewhere near the palace."

"But if I can never return, then how is it any more helpful than sending me to the bottom of the ocean?"

"Ah! This is the fun part. Naturally, Severus understands your lack of confidence in the subject of magic—or, your _lack of hope_ in it. By sending you into a magically induced sleep, a sleep in which you must master a basic spell to escape, he gives you a simple loophole. Thus, you will be free to return to Hograbah once you overcome said magical hopelessness."

"And you're meant to teach me this spell?"

Dumbledore sits up straight, flings out one hand like a showman, pulling a pointed hat from nowhere and plonking it onto his head. 

"I _am_ a professor of magic!"

"What a hat. And I think I'm dreaming."

"Then you'll want to lie down."

I'm in a giant four-poster bed with red and gold linens. I don't even know how I'm comprehending what a four-poster bed is, as I've slept on hay and dirt my entire life, and this is all just too strange a situation for me to truly lie down and relax. I struggle to sit up on the squashy mattress, looking between Cloak and Dumbledore as they toast full cups of tea, and end up pondering the situation in my own head.

_It's not impossible that Snape would want to help me. He's an arse, but he's never directly tried to hurt me._

"Quite right, Harry," Dumbledore says. "Severus may have reason to hate your _father_ , but you? Certainly not."

"Don't read my mind!" I cry. "Shit, who cares? You're a dream. You probably _are_ my mind. And what do you know about my father?"

"Only that he trapped Severus in that lamp not long ago. And probably many other details you're curious about but don't have the time to listen to right now."

"I have the time." The linens tangle around my feet as I scramble out of bed. I trip, jostling the whole table and teatray on my return. "At least tell me whether Snape knew my parents. Maybe once I free him, he can bring me to them, and then—" My smile falls, for Dumbledore is starting to appear melancholy. "They're really dead, aren't they?"

"Sit, Harry. Take more tea." 

I sit. I take more tea. I listen to a tale that leaves me more upset than even my ignorance did.

"They were killed at the hand of Tom Riddle himself. You see that he wants power. He always has. And knowing the status of every Gryffindor descendant, their noble ability to reclaim kingship and take all the treasures and powers held in the belly of the lion and rule Hograbah rightfully, you can understand why your father—and now you—represented a grave threat to him."

"But how is a man simply born with the ambition to take over everything?"

"Tom's childhood was more difficult than most. Rather like yours. It's just that you retained something that Tom did not." Dumbledore observes my confusion over the top of his spectacles, adding, "A good heart." He and Cloak split a biscuit, probably as an excuse to let me process this information. "Furthermore, Tom was brought up in the shadow of his wealthier cousins, the Malfoys. You see, he was born into that extended family, but to an unwed mistress of his father's…"

"I see."

"He was cast aside, into the very village where you grew up, in fact, and would later learn the details of his parentage when he began sneaking and stealing books of magic as a boy. And, worst of all, Tom found out he would have been king ahead of Lucius."

"I might have been angry, too," I admit.

"But you are not. You have as much right to be king, and yet you have no desire to take the throne."

A biscuit calls to me now. I chew it, wondering, "What does this have to do with my parents?"

"Tom had to remove all potential threats to his rise to power. Simple as that. Despite your family keeping to themselves, despite your parents choosing to work for their modest living, and your father's repeated insistence that he had no interest in challenging any Slytherins for kingship, Tom Riddle, in his quest for power, murdered your parents. I imagine he knew nothing of your existence—you always were an angel of a sleeper, Harry."

"My aunt always told me my parents dropped me off one day and never came back." 

There's a spark of sadness in Dumbledore's eyes. Before he and Cloak can go all teary on me, I say, "Riddle told me he couldn't kill Gryffindors on this soil, that if he succeeded then terrible things would happen to him."

"Ah, that old wive's tale. Cleverly invented to ward troublemakers from trying to take the throne. Riddle never believed it until the night with your parents."

When I cock my head, Dumbledore practically beams.

"A goat came along and bit him on his unmentionables."

I snort into my tea. Cloak slaps the table a few times while Dumbledore takes on a calm, mildly amused air, until he says, "All these things happened the very same evening of Severus' imprisonment."

"What? How?"

He gives a great yawn, stretching so that a sheet-white and wrinkly belly is exposed beneath his shirt. "Oh, Harry, I'm very tired now. Why don't you ask Severus?"

"But—"

"Now, don't forget this." He pulls a beautiful, auburn wand from his shorts. Despite being perturbed by its previous home, I take it. "Your father's. You'll need it."

I stare dumbly at the wand. "So, I just…?"

"The spell is _Rennervate_." 

He's already hobbling towards the door.

"Sir," I call after him. "You didn't tell me how to beat Riddle!"

"Oh, Harry. You'll figure it out." Dumbledore uses his spectacles to scratch his nose, squinting out at the flowers, as if he's actually an old forgetful man now. I don't buy it. "Trying to remember something else…"

"How to _use_ the wand would be helpful."

"Ah, yes! Just remember your birthright. And on that note, goodnight."

As Dumbledore disappears, I can't help but shout after him, "You're so bloody helpful!"

"That's no way to talk to God!" he shouts back.

Cloak is peering at me questioningly. I sigh and say, "Shall we? Grab some of those biscuits on the way out."

***

Something is chewing my hair.

When I open my eyes, I'm greeted by giant, chomping teeth, ones I'd recognize anywhere.

"Crookshanks..." I say, pushing the goat away. "At least you spared the unmentionables."

I'm in my bed in Hermione's goat shelter. 

It's dark when I stumble outside, not even a candle alight in the house, so her parents are still away. A good sign. High on the hill, the palace sits over the quiet city and few windows are lit up: the servants' quarters, which are always partially lit, the room I slept in just last night, and the royal quarters and Grand Hall.

With Cloak's help, I'm there in a flash, landing on the window ledge of the Hall and peering down to what appears to be a commotion between Tom Riddle, a servant boy, and a tray of meat that is clattering to the floor.

"I don't want goat or lamb!" Riddle is shouting. "Bring some sort of exotic poultry, like at the Courting Fair."

"Sire, we had exotic poultry because the foreign princes brought it from afar. Now all we have is…" The boy cowers under Riddle's stare. "I will try again, Sire."

Riddle has a fit of laughter as the boy scuttles away, taking the crown off his head and swirling it around one finger. "I'm not even hungry," he tells the person sitting next to his throne. 

Draco. I hardly recognized him with a somber face, shrouded in voluminous black and silver-lined robes, and deep bags under his eyes. With luck, he doesn't appear to be under the same spell his parents were, as his eyes follow Riddle with a certain amount of disgust as he paces around the Hall. Still, I don't know how to get his attention or what I'd do once I had it.

"It's five in the morning," Draco says blankly. "Of course you're not hungry."

Riddle pays little attention, choosing to spin on his foot and raise his eyebrows at an obviously annoyed man hovering near a side chamber.

"Well, Pettigrew?"

"We have the royal historian and magical advisor working on it, just like last time you asked, Sire."

"Tell them to work faster or they will be working with nine fingers apiece."

The man bows low, disappearing.

"Harry," comes a voice.

Over my shoulder, in the courtyard outside the Grand Hall, Hermione is waving excitedly with Ron nearby looking paranoid.

"Hi," I say, flying down. 

She envelops me in a giant hug. "Harry! Oh, and Cloak—" She hugs him, too. "What happened? We thought you were gone for good."

"Riddle was clumsy with his wording, I guess. No time to explain. What's going on in there?"

"Seems Riddle wished to be king, and while Snape granted that...Riddle still isn't recognized on the Crest of Hograbah. He's more than a little upset, especially because he's down to one wish."

"My guess is Snape made him King of All Pants," Ron adds with a grin. "Why's he so invested in the title, though? He's ruling in King Lucius's place. What's the big deal about a Crest?"

"Well," says Hermione. " _He_ claims his father's father sat on the throne before the Malfoys, so he wants to be recognized as no less important than Lucius. Of course, it's rubbish. That would make Riddle a descendant of the Slytherins, and there's no evidence of _that_ in the library."

I nod. "He's telling the truth. Riddle would have been in line ahead of Lucius, but he was born a bastard."

From the look on Hermione's face, it's like I've challenged her brain to a duel. 

"How do you know?" she asks.

I trade an amused look with Cloak. "A crazy old bloke told me."

If she's skeptical, she doesn't say so, simply peering over my shoulder into the low window, where Riddle is visible having some kind of argument with Snape as we speak. 

"He's certainly making his bitterness known," she says. "I don't think he cares about bettering things in the city—or the poor villages for that matter—or anything political. He wants to be recognized as someone…"

"Someone whose name matters," I say, an idea starting to blossom in my mind. 

"Power-hungry bastard," Ron mutters.

"No, he's—" For a moment, I allow myself to look at Riddle as more than a man slapping a platter of roast pigeons out of a servant's hands and see the poor troubled boy Dumbledore spoke of. "Nevermind. I think I know how to stop him."

***

"I'm only trying to say that making your third wish would make you _feel_ _better_ , Master. Less troubled by all these peons and brats…"

Even from afar, I can see that Riddle is at his wit's end, springing up from his throne and blowing past the djin floating in the middle of the Hall. "Stop nagging me, Snape. I'll figure it out in the morning." He's striding out of the Hall, stopping only to hold out a hand to Draco. 

Draco raises two neat eyebrows. "That would be most imprudent."

"We are betrothed, are we not?"

"Betrothed, but not married."

Riddle smiles with no indication of happiness. His heels click slowly on the ground as he makes his way toward Draco's seat. "You give that _Potter_ privileges that I—"

"I was _not_ intimate with Harry, for the last time," Draco says steadily through his teeth, and those teeth are audibly clacked shut as Riddle grabs his face and leans close.

"Such a coy little slut," he whispers. He turns Draco's head to the side, breathing into his ear. "Do you remember when I taught you Potions as a boy? The way you would let me hold your hand while you stirred? So pretty, so eager…"

"You were guiding me."

"The way you moaned with excitement."

Barely able to contain my fury, I step onto the highest perch in the Hall, a balcony from which the queen and son sometimes observe political proceedings, but now it houses only Cloak and me. Draco's eyes flick up, first alarmed and then filling with shame.

"That's…" he whispers. "You're lying, Thomas. That's not t-true."

I shake my head, trying to tell Draco not to worry. I don't believe a word of it. He seems to understand he should just keep acting naturally.

"You said you would honor my vows," Draco tells him. "I cannot sleep in your bed until I am married to you. And I _won't_ , unless you wish to go down as a rapist first and a king second."

Silence takes the Hall. Riddle and Draco face off, one taunting, the other clearly exhausted, while Snape billows around, looking completely bored despite having glared at me twice.

"Pettigrew," calls Riddle, not taking his eyes off the prince. The fat man appears in the doorway. "Send for the Sheikh."

"The Sheikh?" Draco breathes. "Right now?"

"You want to be married? Let's get married."

And here's my chance.

"He won't be marrying you," I declare.

Riddle looks over his shoulder. If he is surprised to find me standing on the balcony wearing my finest robes, my jaw set, my arms folded, he doesn't show it, simply throwing Snape a dirty look.

"What did you do? I specifically told you to send Potter far away. His little carpet couldn't have flown that fast."

"That little carpet is a cloak," I tell him. "And his name is Reginald. And he deserves your respect."

Riddle very nearly laughs. "Is that so?"

"He is a relic of the Gryffindor dynasty. Truly above you, wouldn't you say?"

"You dare—?" He whips out his wand so fast, it takes my deepest strength not to flinch, to maintain eye contact as he strides towards me.

"Oh, Tom. I wouldn't waste magic on a battle you cannot win." 

From here, I can see my reflection in the great mirror that hangs above the thrones. I begin to descend—unbeknownst to Riddle, on Cloak's invisible back—and a cloud of smoke erupts from behind me, the theatrics of my friends in the kitchen. The smoke surrounds me, thick and black, Cloak's fabric glittering beneath my feet, as I approach Riddle's increasingly confused person. 

"You see," I tell him. "When you told Snape to send me farther than I could ever hope to return, he sent me to a place he presumed inescapable: the belly the Gryffindor lion. After all, I would never have got out to begin with if not for him. Unfortunately for you, Riddle, there are treasures there greater than djins and gold. I stumbled upon a ghost who taught me everything I needed to know. Albus Dumbledore. Do you know him?"

"I have...heard things," he says, twisting his wand in his hand. A curse seems to slip around on his tongue, hesitant to emerge.

"Master," Snape warns.

"Oh, you want to hurt me?" I ask, sauntering downward on my smoke. "Perhaps, kill me? With luck, I would perish and that would be that. But if the stories told to me by my ghostly friend are true, my ancestral magic will punish you for harming me on my own soil."

"Your own…"

"That's right. I'm taking back Hograbah. Right now, in fact." 

I draw my father's wand on Riddle, the new self-proclaimed king, and he all but scurries back towards the wall nearest the throne.

"Master," Snape repeats.

"Not now!"

"You do have one last wish," he tells Riddle, floating towards the man and never breaking eye contact with me. "You can beat this boy and solve your problem in one fell swoop."

"How?" Riddle grits out, looking between us like a trapped dog in an alleyway.

"If you become the inheriting Gryffindor, you will claim kingship over Hograbah and you will then have the power to banish this meddlesome boy for good."

Something changes in Riddles dark eyes. He seems to resist. "But I am a Slytherin."

"Are you? The Slytherin line cast you aside like garbage when your mother bore you. And the current Slytherin king treats you like you are beneath him. Rise above him."

"Yes," he heaves.

"Wish it."

"Yes, it wish it! I wish to be the inheriting Gryffindor!"

Snape's bored face overtakes him again. He folds his arms, and says, "Very well."

There is an explosion of black smoke. 

I, for one, am tired of this charade and collapse into a fit of coughing on the floor. All around me, others are struggling to breathe in the smoke themselves.

"God, mum!" Ron moans. "Started to go overboard on the smoke in the end."

"It wasn't me, Ron. It was the djin's dramatics."

"I am anything but dramatic, madam," comes a deep voice.

The smoke clears to a thin gray screen. Across the room, Draco is blinking at me wildly. Ron, Hermione, and several of the Weasleys are wandering into the center of the Hall, confused. Snape is the only person unaffected.

"Where is Riddle?" Hermione asks.

The last of the smoke clears.

A dog barks.

"Meet the inheriting Gryffindor," Snape announces. The corners of his mouth twitch.

"Snape, really?" I laugh. The dog runs up to me when I crouch, perfectly willing to lick my palm and receive a good scratch behind the ears. 

"This is not sufficient? As far as I'm concerned, if you name this dog as part of the Potter household and he trumps you in age, he is therefore the inheriting Gryffindor."

"Whatever you say, Snape. Thank you," I add, but Snape is already billowing away to stare somberly out the window at the rising sun. This man has a way with pouting.

"And at least I don't have to marry him this way," someone says.

I look up to find Draco smirking at me. Slowly, I rise. My hand jumps to the back of my neck, rubbing nervously. 

"Er, hello."

"Don't pretend to be shy after that display," he says, and throws his arms around my shoulders. I don't care who's in the room. I kiss him soundly, picking him up off his toes, and half spinning in the center of the Grand Hall, because I can't contain my joy. We're both free. And he wants to be mine, mine alone, despite my lies.

He pulls back from the kiss and smacks me across the face.

I hiss, holding my cheek. " _Fuck_ , Draco!"

I feel a thwack on the head from behind. "Watch your tongue," says Mrs. Weasley.

"Sorry." Any remorse I feel is drowned in indignation, as I stare at Draco from under my eyelashes. "What's the problem?"

"I told you _not_ to lie to me again," he says more with his index finger than his mouth. The pointy little...

"Well, it was already a mess by the time you asked that of me!"

"It doesn't matter. You made a promise in the same breath that you broke it!"

Ron slides a hand on my shoulder, whispering, "Harry. You and this fellow. You sure? I've seen him eat a whole pie and then complain it wasn't sweet enough."

"Ron," Hermione says, eyeing Draco anxiously.

Apparently my prince isn't hard of hearing, as he narrows his eyes and saunters up to Ron looking right sinister. It is, admittedly, very hot. "Weasley, I will have your head, if you don't shut your—"

Mrs. Weasley points her tea towel, saying sternly, "You watch your tongue, too, young man."

Draco, who I imagine has never been spoken to this way, goes round-eyed and pale.

"Son," comes a drowsy, feminine voice. Across the hall, from the direction of the drawing room, the king and queen are shuffling out, fumbling to tighten the strings of their robes when they notice the small crowd. "What's going on here?"

The king is still blinking himself awake. "I could have sworn...I had the strangest of dreams…"

"Father, it wasn't a dream." Draco rushes up, taking each parent by an elbow. "Riddle was trying to take over the kingdom, and Harry—" He looks at me, the memory of my lies probably not disappearing, but going momentarily stagnant as he gives me a little smile. "He saved us."

Across the Hall, Snape snorts. "Three cheers for Potter."

"All of that was true?" the queen asks, sharing an alarmed look with her husband. "All of it?"

Doing my best to draw up tall, I step forward like Prince Harold of old, so to speak. 

"No, my queen. Riddle, your trusted advisor, turned out to be a trickster of sorts. He put things into yours heads. Terrible things about yourselves...and your son…but it's all finished now. He's gone for good."

"Splendid," says the king, looking nearly disinterested in all of this. "I never liked him. Oh, a dog. Your mother would never let me have a dog," he adds to Draco. "Is he yours, Prince Harold?"

"Er, kind of. You can have him."

"Such bounty you bring from the land of Gryffindor. Come along, then, dog."

The king turns on his heel, the queen and new companion following, until they reach the archway that leads to the royal chambers, and then King Lucius looks over his shoulder.

"Draco won't want me sharing this, but I'm sure he'll forgive me. When he came to us this evening, he was terribly excited by the idea of you officially courting him. Shall we draw up the papers later today?"

I look at Draco, whose jaw muscle is fluttering in agitation, so I feel I must leave this up to him.

"If Draco deems it so."

He looks up at me, angry, but still—dare I say—in love. "Yes. Of course."

I'm vaguely aware of Hermione and the Weasleys excusing themselves, leaving Draco, Cloak, and me alone with Snape, who hasn't budged from his perch in front of the window. He looks disillusioned with the stirrings of life below in the city, as if he's unsure why he even bothered to save us from Riddle.

"I really owe you, Snape."

He turns his head slightly, not looking at me. "You owe me nothing. I owe you a final wish." He clears his throat. "At your leisure."

"No," I say, reaching to pat him on the back. My hand slips through his body, and when he shivers, I press my lips together and decide more adamantly than ever what I must do. "Look, you saved my life with that second wish. Now, I owe you yours. You're free."

He whirls around. "What?"

"I told you I always keep my promises."

The next time I blink, Snape's smoke has vanished. He stands before me a man. A simple man, who looks no different than a djin, save a sturdier form, a lot less hovering (though still somehow a little bit of hovering), and best of all—no lamp in sight. 

He is rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, as if he's never laid eyes on his own flesh.

"I feel things," he says. He looks at me. It's not a look I enjoy. "I remember." Despite my hopes that this was an effect of being a djin, Snape's eyes seem to get darker as his emotions do. "Potter..."

"I'm not my dad! Whatever he did to you...it wasn't me."

And, as much as I'd like to ask for the specifics, Snape has been through enough for me this past week, perhaps through my entire lifetime, and I'd just as soon leave whatever happened between him and James Potter in the past.

He seems to understand. He nods once. And turns on his heel.

"Where are you going?" I splutter.

"I imagine my Potions practice is long gone. I shall travel, study, and start anew."

He doesn't even turn around, the bastard.

"Then take Cloak," I say. 

The fellow in question puts his fabric corners on his hips, cocking his hood at me. 

"What? Do you think I'm going to call you _Reginald_? It's not happening." When Cloak waves me off, I ask, "Do you mind going with Snape, mate? He could use a companion. Plus, he can't fly anymore."

I imagine if Cloak could sigh, he'd be doing it now, but the kindly old rag begins to nod, I imagine because without Snape he'd be stuck in that cave still himself.

Draco and I hold hands, watching them fly away from a garden balcony not far from the Hall. The morning bells ring, a cock crows in the distance, birds chirp, and Draco, looking as radiant as if he'd slept the the night through, smiles at it all like he owns it, which I suppose he does, saying, "You have a lot of explaining to do, Potter."

"Hmm." I pull him back against my chest. "Somehow, that name feels more intimate than Harry."

"It should be. It's the truth. Have you heard of the truth? I know you haven't gone to school or anything."

"Oh, I had enough schooling to hear the story about the boy I met at a party, who let me believe he was a servant to the prince, when really he was the prince himself."

Draco sniffs. "Ancient history."

"Much like the djin and all those inconsequential wishes he gave me." 

I smile, watching him turn towards me with the morning sun glowing in his eyes and hair.

"Let's agree to forget our mutual indiscretions," he says quietly. "But, I'll have you know, I will have _someone's_ head at some point if you ever, ever lie to me again."

"What did Mrs. Weasley tell you about that tongue?"

He gives no response but a kiss.

Of course, Draco would not watch his tongue. He would whinge about my falsehoods and anything else he deemed whinge-worthy for years to come, which would be a lot of things, but the wonderful part is that he would whinge about them married to me…

A street rat, turned prince.


	8. CHAPTER EIGHT - EPILOGUE

 

 

**Epilogue**

We burst into Draco's chambers, winded from the trek upstairs even though our bags are floating effortlessly behind us. They set about unpacking themselves, with my clothes heading towards a wardrobe of my very own and Draco's to his, and I fall onto the bed twirling my wand, marveling at all the magic still so new to me. This life, this whole new world of possibilities, is magnificent.

"Well, that settles that!" Draco plops onto an ottoman and begins removing his boots. "I'm never leaving Hograbah again. No, I'm never leaving the _palace_ again. No, my bed. My beautiful gold-gilded cage, how I missed you."

He flings out his foot, sending a boot flying towards the wardrobe, and then drops his forehead on the vanity table.

From the bed, I give him a withering stare. "All you ever talked about was getting out of here. Now, after one little trip, you're done?"

"You mean a long, arduous trip. A camel _spit_ on my favorite cloak and a man nearly _kidnapped_ me."

"You mean that fellow who offered you a horseback ride through the Himalayas?"

"Yes. I'm traumatized."

Draco pops up to examine himself in the mirror, seeming to inspect every pore for dirt (he's as smooth as porcelain), the bags under his eyes (or lack thereof), and the closeness of his shave (impeccable)—truly the traumatized kitten. If it would help to scoff, I would, but as self-absorbed as my husband is, I simply find myself muttering to the bed canopy.

"We slept in the homes of royalty. We floated on cloud-chariots over the savanna, and wore expensive furs in the alps. We went everywhere, and spent a fortune doing it, and this spoiled brat is worried about a spit stain on his favorite cloak."

"I heard all of that, Potter. God, I need a bath."

"Would you please stop calling me that?"

"No. It suits you."

I roll onto my belly to observe him. "Am I seriously married to this person?"

"You are, and you love it."

Draco bends toward the mirror, his arse curving out probably deliberately, and I'm reminded that, yes, I do love it despite him. If I were privy to his difficult nature beforehand (and, no, I will not acknowledge that Ron warned me), probably nothing would have changed, except I would have known not to treat him with such gentleness on our wedding night. This young man, with his lip biting, and his timid smile, and his tentative wandering hands that sprang back at first deliberate touch between my legs, followed by the quickest flash of a coy smirk—God, he knew exactly what he was doing. Now, he dips a cloth into the water basin and sets about blotting his neck and cheeks, looking at me in the mirror with the most sultry of eyes.

"I'm finished with adventures," he says. "Go off on your own, if you want them. I'll be at the bathhouses, in the meantime."

"Like Hell you will. I know what goes on in the bathhouses."

I muster a smile, as he continues to preen, pinching his cheeks, tousling his hair left and right, until he's pleased with his appearance. Watching him do this every morning and evening, it's become one of my favorite pastimes.

My throat tight, I try to sound casual: "A hundred lands in as many days was rather ambitious, wasn't it?"

"Yes, and I blame you. I wanted to sit in castles of varying decadence, sipping rosewater juleps the whole time. Tell me, what's the point in adventure if you're not doing it in the lap of luxury?"

There's a comeback about Draco and _my_ lap on the tip of my tongue, but I can't be arsed to figure it out, as I notice he's suddenly rummaging in a strange crate on the vanity table.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Mm, potions that Severus has been sending us on his travels," he says, holding a crystal vial up in the light. "Oils and perfumes mostly. Come smell this one."

The vial Draco holds out for me is sweet but heavy, like a nut or the flesh of a sapling. I put my chin on his shoulder and read from Snape's note, "Van-ill-a."

"See!" Draco thwacks me on the chest. "I told you I'd have you reading by the time we got home. Which reminds me—another lie I'll never forgive you for. Imagine, a _prince_ who can't read. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Forgive me if I hadn't wanted to sing that embarrassing fact from the rooftops."

While I have him cornered and half-dressed against the vanity, I find myself stroking down his sides, entranced by the smells rising from the crate. I smile against his shoulder, where his under-robes fall away, my finger helping the cotton just a little, and bury my face in that sweet-smelling crook of the neck. Honey blossoms. I'll never tire of that scent.

"Potter," he laughs. He thwacks me again, weaker. "Let me bathe first. I haven't seen so much as a spring in days."

Far from wanting to indulge my husband, I'm encouraged by his breathy protest. I reach around his waist to pull open his robes, Draco looking at me all the while in the mirror, and when our eyes meet I let my mouth fall slightly open and my cock twitch so he can feel its eagerness. He falls back against me, shuddering. When I expose his soft, white stomach, so stark in contrast to his sun-kissed neck and face, and his light silken pants with a lovely, compact cock that already stains the pants wet, a tremor runs through me. I'm the only person who will ever see Draco this way. He's mine, and he's chosen to be.

I press him down on the table, my hand firm between his shoulders. He strains to breathe steady, to maintain eye contact, gritting out, "Lift up my robes."

No doubt that I want to. But Draco is always offering himself to me this way, and so rarely do I push for a taste of something I may prefer even to losing myself in the warmth of his body.

I lean over him, my mouth to his ear. "I will. And then I'm going to eat you."

For all Draco's prudishness on the subject, his back arches and his entire body trembles. "I should wash," he moans, which only excites me more—the demanding prince turned weak for me.

I drop to my knees. The vanity wobbles as Draco resists: vials clink, the mirror shakes, pots of oils sway, but I still it all with two forceful hands on his hips, even as he begins to sweat and plead in that low, raspy voice of arousal.

"Mm, Harry. No...no…"

The skin of his backside is cool, soft, and so delicate between my tongue and lips. I pull him close with one hand wrapped between his legs, the other thumbing open one tender cheek, working my mouth inward, kissing until my lips pucker against the perfectly pink, pristine hole that flexes before me.

This may be the only time I call the shots, the only time Draco lets argument fall by the wayside, submitting utterly to my desires, and when I bury my face there, desire is truly all I know.

"Oh God. Oh my God."

"You're perfect," I say, muffled. "Mmm, you smell perfect. You taste perfect. There you go, touch yourself."

His fist knocks against the vanity as he pulls his cock, and it's to this lovely sound that I seek out his arse again, hungry for his flesh, for the dirty sounds he makes, working two fingers into him just as he begins to spurt against the shiny wood surface.

I stand, ready to hold him close in his weakened state, but when I grab him around the waist he all but wrenches me onto the bed. I'm between his legs, as he forces my trousers down and around my ankles with his heels, demanding, "Fuck me."

"I love you, too," I laugh.

And by now I know his flirtations. When he rears back to strike me, I'm ready to pin his hands to the bed. He throws his head back, saying quietly, "Fuck me, fuck me…" as his hips lift desperately to meet mine.

"Yes, tell me what to do," I growl. If this is submitting to my prince, I'm happy to bow to him every day.

His legs grip me around the back, urging me to slip inside him, but there is no need. I'm already rubbing my cockhead down there, feeling for that wet give, until—God, it's always so perfect—I'm breaching him, fucking deeper with each thrust, with each pull of Draco's heels against my thighs. In moments, I'm balls deep and I can't even remember what he said to bother me before.

"Slower, slower," he whispers.

I can give him that, but I cannot give him gentler now. He's bent in half from the force of my fucking. I look at him, my head pressed into the mattress, his face turned so his nose touches mine, and I feel more than hear him say, "Too much."

"Shh, take it. Relax and take it."

I know he can. He's grown to accommodate me, unlike that first night, when we rushed into a pleasurable if short-lived affair, with me bursting as I clutched half of my cock at the base so as not to push him past his comfort on this very bed. Too much for Draco? No. It's too much for me—feeling him now, with his spit-soaked little arse fluttering around me, listening to the words he keens, _It's so much cock, Harry, yes, yes, so much_. I clench my teeth, burying it deep and slow, my hands slipping with sweat on the backs of his knees, until I'm grunting out my pleasure, my seed within him like a man possessed.

Afterwards, with his head on my chest, my hand sifting through silky white hair, Draco points weakly across the room.

"Oh. Note on the…over there."

Ah. Snape's crate came with a second note that we missed.

" _Wingardium…_ " I scrunch my brow. "Er, come here, note."

The note does, if a bit clumsily, fly to my hand, and with Draco dozing in the crook of my arm, I take on the once-impossible task of reading a note addressed to me.

 

_Potter,_

_I imagine I'm the only person alive with knowledge of your parents. In repayment for setting me free, I will tell you a short tale._

_Your mother was my dearest friend, and that is reason enough for me not to hate you, despite what you may think. Of course, she did not love me in the same way I loved her, choosing your father to wed. James Potter happened to be someone who had tormented me my entire childhood, so, after you were born, I visited Lily to say goodbye. I could not watch her happiness blossom with someone else. Your father found us embracing, assumed I was attacking her, and cursed me to become a djin. When he died at the hand of Tom Riddle afterwards, the lamp, as with all James' possessions, went to the lion's belly._

_That is all I care to tell for now._

_Despite Prince Draco's spoiled and terrible nature, it seems you love him. I send to you some gifts to make your days with him all the sweeter._

_Snape_

_PS: Reginald says hello. What a stupid name for a cloak._

 

I crumple the note and toss it across the room before Draco can glance at it. _Spoiled and terrible_ , I think, laughing silently.

"What?" he wonders.

"Oh, just wondering if I'll ever wake up from this dream."

"If it were a dream, would you want to?"

I stroke his cheek, still as lovely as the day I first laid eyes on it, and realize, "No. I don't suppose I would."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can leave a comment here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/29311.html). ♥


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